X       / ....  —-  "&~~ 


Book0 


AND    NEW    EDITIONS, 

BY  THE 

AUTHOR    OF    "RUTLEDGE." 

1.— RTJTLEDGE. 
2.— THE  SUTHERLANDS. 
3.— LOUIE'S  LAST  TERM. 
4.— FRANK  WARRINGTON. 
5.— ST.  PHILIP'S. 
6.— ROUNDHEARTS. 
7.— RICHARD  VANDERMARCK. 
8.-A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 
9.— MISSY. 
10.-A  NEW  NOVEL.    (Just  Ready.) 

"  The  Stories  by  the  author  of  '  Rutledge '  are  told  with 

real  dramatic  power,  and  a  genuine  dramatic 

pathos,  which  combine  to  make  them 

universally  read  with  thorough 

satisfaction  and 

pleasure." 

All  issued  uniform  with  this  volume.   Price  §1.50  each, 
aud  Bent  free  by  mail,  on  receipt  of  price, 

BY 

G.  W.   CABLETON  &  CO.,   Publishers, 
New  York. 


HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. 


Kernel. 


BY 

THE  AUTHOR   OF   "RUTLEDGE;" 

THE  SUTHERLANDS  ;"    "  LOUIE'S  LAST  TERM  AT  ST.  MARY'S  ;" 
"FRANK    WARRINGTON  ;"    "RICHARD    VANDERMARCK  ;" 
"ST.   PHILIPS;"    "A  PERFECT   ADONIS  ;" 
"MISSY  :"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW     YORK  : 

Copyright,  1881,  by 

G.    W\     Carle f on    &    Co.,    Publishers. 

LONDON  :     S.    LOW,    SOX    &    CO. 
MDCCCLXXXI. 


Stereotyped  by 

SAMUEL  STODDEK,  TRCUT 

Ei.i:crnoTTpEn  &  STEUEOTYPER,  PanmNQ  AND  BOOK-BINDING  Co. 
DO  ANN  XTBKKT,  N.  Y.  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


OHAPTEB  PAOE 

I.  Sea  Breezes 9 

n.  Vivat  Rex 20 

III.  Misfits 31 

IV.  On  the  Sands 41 

V.  Unconventional  for  a  First  Call 47 

VI.  Tea,  Treated  Unconventionally 57 

VII.  Bringing  the  Mail 74 

VIII.  In  Re  Brass 83 

IX.  Keeping  a  Birthday 99 

X.  En  Grande  Tenue Ill 

XI.  Catechetical 128 

XII.  Second  Thoughts 143 

XIII.  Two  Gray  Eggs  in  the  Sand 151 

XIV.  The  Nest  in  the  Cedar  Tree 169 

XV.  A  Day  of  Reckoning 182 

XVI.  The  Sea  makes  Moan 191 

XVII.  In  the  Brooding  Darkness 204 

XVin.  The  Court-room 226 

XIX.  Being  Duly  Sworn  250 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEB  PAQB 

XX.  For  and  Against 2G3 

XXI.  Counsel  for  the  Defence 275 

XXTI.  Counsel  for  the  Prosecution 286 

XXIH.  In  the  Judgment  of  Twelve  Men 299 

XXIV.  The  Tinkle  of  a  Tiny  Bell 314 

XXV.  The  Eastern  Moon 333 

XXVI.  The  Lecture 351 

XXVII.  The  Corner  Rooms 360 

XXVIH.  Constrained  to  Hear 370 

XXIX.  Some  Dead  Flowers 384 

XXX.  Cap  and  Apron 393 

yxXT    A  Woman,  not  a  Shade 405 

XXXH.  A  Fair  Land..                                                        .  415 


HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. 


HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

SEA  BEEEZES. 

" But  nature  was  so  kind! 
Like  a  dear  friend  I  loved  the  loneliness; 
My  heart  rose  glad  as  at  some  sweet  caress 

When  passed  the  wandering  wind." 

Celia  Thazter. 

r  I  THE  train  stopped,  without  abruptness,  the  conductor 
-JL  called  out  "  South  Berwick,"  in  almost  a  conversa 
tional  key,  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  one  passenger  car 
that,  with  the  baggage  car  and  tender,  formed  the  train. 
It  had  been  crawling  for  hours  along  a  flat  country, 
stopping  at  intervals  at  stations  that  bore  a  family  like 
ness  to  this,  and  then  moving  stolidly  forward  through 
more  scrub  oaks,  and  more  sandy  cuttings,  and  past  more 
isolated  and  despondent  farms.  Sometimes  a  passenger 
got  off.  Less  frequently  one  or  two  got  on.  At  ono 
place  a  man  got  off,  and  I  watched  him  walk  away, 
down  a  straight,  long,  sandy  road  that  ran  through  a  low 
pine  wood,  and  seemed  to  have  no  ending.  He  was 
very  tall,  and  seemed  to  dwarf  the  poor  little  forest 

[0] 


10  SEA     BREEZES. 

He  earned  a  bag,  and  was  dressed  all  in  black  broad 
cloth,  and  the  hat  he  wore  was  a  sleek,  well-brushed 
beaver,  which  caught  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  over 
the  tops  of  the  pitiful  trees,  and  shone  illustriously. 
We  stayed  so  long  at  that  station  I  watched  him  a  good 
way  on  his  journey ;  but  he  did  not  turn  back,  or  evince 
any  interest  in  what  he  had  left  behind  him.  I  wondered 
whether  he  was  going  to  preach  a  sermon  at  a  funeral 
or  to  sell  books  out  of  his  leather  bag.  But  "  whither 
would  conjecture  stray  ?"  Here  we  were  at  South  Ber 
wick,  and  my  heart,  which  had  been  growing  heavier 
with  each  added  mile  of  sand,  went  down  with  a  sudden 
precipitation  as  I  heard  the  long-looked  for  announce 
ment,  and,  gathering  up  the  child  and  the  bag  that  fell 
to  my  share,  stepped  out  upon  the  platform. 

It  was  a  desperately  dull  and  dreary  place.  One  or 
two  men  moved  about  deliberately,  and  seemed  to  be 
taking  care  of  our  trunks  arid  of  the  mail-bag,  which 
were  all  that  they  put  out  of  the  baggage-car. 
Though  it  was  the  last  of  May,  and  though  a  bright  sun. 
was  shining,  the  wind  was  blowing  from  the  sea,  and  it 
was  cold.  I  wrapped  a  shawl  around  Maidy,  who  clung 
close  to  me  and  looked  bewildered ;  Sophia  (she  was 
maid,  but  she  ought  to  have  been  mistress)  set  down 
Baby  on  the  platform,  handed  me  the  cord  by  which  she 
held  the  dog,  and  bustled  about  to  see  to  the  trunks.  I 
took  Baby  by  one  hand  and  Maidy  by  the  other,  and 
walked  up  and  down  on  the  boards,  and  felt  very  sorry 
for  myself.  What  desolation,  what  dullness !  and  we 
had  taken  a  house  here,  and  had  to  stay  all  summer.  I 
had  been  so  long  used  to  brick  and  mortar  dullness  and 
desolation  that  this  seemed  very  chilly. 

"  Don't  go  away  with  the  checks,"  called   Sophia 


SEA     BREEZES.  11 

sharply,  for  I  had  walked  down  towards  the  old  stage, 
the  only  vehicle  in  sight,  and  was  trying  to  cheer  Maidy 
by  telling  her  it  would  take  us  away  to  the  sea. 

When  the  luggage  was  disposed  of,  and  we  were  in 
the  stage,  wrapped  in  all  the  shawls  the  careful  Sophia 
would  allow  us,  we  rolled  away  towards  the  village.  It 
was  no  use  to  ask  the  driver  how  far  we  had  to  go,  for 
he  spoke  without  turning  his  head,  and  the  wind  took 
his  words  away  from  us.  What  a  wind  !  But  the  sun 
shone  warm  on  my  shoulder,  and  the  shawls  were  thick, 
and  in  a  few  moments  we  drove  into  a  green  and  pretty 
village.  The  street  was  very  broad,  and  the  houses 
looked  at  each  other  across  it  with  a  cheerful  recogni 
tion.  There  were  vines  about  the  doors,  and  the  trees, 
through  not  very  large,  were  green  with  the  greenness  of 
May.  Two  or  three  gray  old  houses  stood  with  gable 
ends  to  the  street,  but  more,  all  green  and  white,  stood 
primly  facing  the  public,  not  ashamed. 

"  Maidy,  it's  not  so  bad  after  all,"  I  cried  cheerfully, 
giving  her  a  little  hug,  for  there  was  a  wind-mill  in  the 
distance,  whose  white  sails  were  turning  against  the  blue 
sky,  and  in  a  window  I  had  seen  some  flowers.  The 
little  girl,  tenderly  responsive  always  to  my  moods, 
pressed  close  to  me,  and  pointed,  pleased,  to  a  pigeon- 
house  under  the  eaves  of  a  barn,  where  pigeons,  white 
and  gray,  were  sunning  themselves,  and  strutting  up 
and  down  the  little  balcony.  It  was  noon,  and  the 
school-bell  was  ringing,  and  a  troop  of  children  ran  out 
upon  the  sidewalk  and  gazed  after  us.  A  horse  was 
tied  before  the  village  "  store  ;"  an  empty  farm  wagon 
rattled  past  us ;  this  was  all  the  animation  that  we  saw, 
but  the  village,  somehow,  was  not  desolate  ;  the  sunshine 


12  SEA     BREEZES. 

and  the  greenness  and  the  trimness  made  up  for  the 
absence  of  human  stir. 

We  lumbered  on  through  the  village,  pausing  only  to 
throw  out  the  mail-bag  at  the  post-office.  The  houses  grew 
fewer  and  farther  apart.  We  thought,  as  we  approached 
each  one,  it  was  the  one  to  which  we  were  bound.  I 
could  see  Sophia's  hopes  were  set  upon  the  trim  boxes 
with  white-washed  palings.  When  all  these  were  past, 
and  we  had  only  two  low  farm-houses  between  us  and  the 
blue  line  of  ocean,  which  we  now  could  see,  I  breathed 
freer.  At  the  last  of  these  two  the  stage  drew  up. 

"  Are  you  snre  this  is  the  house,"  I  said,  with  a  fear 
of  some  mistake. 

"  There  ain't  no  other  for  it  to  be,"  he  said,  pulling 
open  the  stage  door. 

I  sprang  out,  almost  forgetting  to  take  Maidy,  who 
held  out  her  arms  to  me  eagerly.  The  little  gray  gate 
was  closed.  I  was  bending  over  the  rusty  latch,  when 
Sophia  recalled  me  to  my  responsibilities,  and  told  me, 
in  a  hard  tone,  that  the  man  was  to  be  paid.  After  I 
had  counted  out  the  money  for  him,  I  said,  laughing, 
"  Sophia,  I  see  you  don't  like  the  house ;  I  am  afraid 
you  think  it  is  a  trifle  old." 

"Old,"  she  sniffed,  setting  down  poor  Baby  with 
emphasis,  and  jerking  Rex's  cord  to  keep  him  from  under 
the  wheels  of  the  stage,  but  not  looking  at  me  nor  at  the 
house,  as  she  followed  me  through  the  gate.  "  If  any 
body  likes  rats  and  cockroaches  and  ants  and  mildew — " 

"It's  perfect,"  I  cried,  gazing  up  at  the  gray  shin 
gles.  "But  how  shall  we  get  in?  I  thought  Colonel 
What's-his-name  was  going  to  have  it  opened,  and  to 
send  a  woman  to  have  a  tire,  and  something  ready  for 
us." 


SEA    BEEEZES.  13 

"  It  all  comes,"  muttered  Sophia,  "  of  taking  a  house 
without  going  to  see  it ;  and  bringing  children  into  the 
country  at  this  time  of  year's  an  outrage.  They're 
starved  now,  and  there  isn't  a  neighbor  near  enough 
to  get  a  glass  of  milk  from." 

But  at  this  moment  around  the  corner  of  the  house 
there  appeared  an  Indian  woman,  brown  and  smiling, 
who  said  she  had  been  sent  to  open  the  house  and  build 
a  fire  for  us,  and  that  there  was  bread,  and  eggs  and 
milk  within. 

Sophia  reluctantly  followed  her,  and  Maidy  and  I 
ran  up  the  side  steps  that  led  to  the  balcony  across  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  peeped  in  at  the  closed  windows. 
I  had  a  delightful  feeling  of  possession ;  it  was  so  long 
since  I  had  had  a  delightful  feeling  of  any  kind,  no  one 
need  have  begrudged  me  this.  I  had  been  three  years  a 
widow,  and  had  never  been  in  the  country  since  that 
dreary  blight  had  fallen  on  my  life,  but  had  spent  the 
time  in  stuffy  city  apartments,  depressed  by  sorrow, 
harassed  by  poverty ;  many  months  of  the  three  years 
prostrated  by  dangerous  illness.  It  had  been  like  a 
gleam  of  sunshine,  when  the  doctor,  touched  by  Maidy's 
pale  cheeks,  had  proposed  a  summer  by  the  sea  for  us, 
and  had  made  the  way  plain  by  a  communication  with 
Colonel  Emlyn,  who  owned  two  or  three  cottages  at  this 
remote  place,  and  who  was  glad  to  hear  of  a  tenant 
who  would  be  contented  with  mildew  and  rag  carpets, 
and  who  did  not  hanker  for  society.  The  rent  was  low, 
the  air  irreproachable, — that  was  all  I  asked ;  and  with 
the  first  breath  of  the  sea-breeze,  life  and  youth  seemed 
to  come  back  to  me.  The  zest  with  which  I  ran  up 
the  steps  and  counted  the  windows,  and  gazed  at  the 
narrow  front  door,  with  its  rusty  knocker  and  fan- 


14  SEA     BEEEZE8. 

shaped  light  above,  contrasted  sharply  with  the  apathy 
with  which  I  had  taken  possession  of  the  rooms  to 
which  from  time  to  time  we  had  moved  in  the  city. 
Sophia  had  had  all  the  work  of  selecting  and  prepar 
ing  them,  and  had  been  all  energy  and  approbation  in 
consequence.  The  case  was  reversed  now,  and  Sophia's 
disapproval  was  the  only  cloud  upon  the  sunny  sky  of 
our  new  life. 

I  loved  the  house  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw 
it.  It  was  a  dilapidated,  unpainted  farm-house,  which 
Colonel  Emlyn  had  bought  as  a  speculation  some  years 
before,  when  he  built  his  own  house  down  by  the  sea. 
He  had  fancied  it  would  be  easy  to  rent  it,  and  had 
spent  a  few  hundred  dollars  in  fitting  it  up.  But  it  had 
been  on  his  hands  more  years  than  off  them  ;  and  I  sup 
pose  he  often  wished  he  had  his  few  hundred  dollars 
back,  as  no  one  enjoys  an  unprofitable  speculation  that 
is  always  in  his  sight.  If  the  same  amount  of  money 
had  been  sunk  in  an  imaginary  mine  or  on  a  collapsed 
railroad,  he  would  not  have  given  it  a  second  thought. 
But  here  was  his  little  mistake  in  view  from  every 
window  of  his  house,  and  it  fretted  the  good  colonel,  as 
I  afterwards  saw. 

The  house  was  built  in  an  unusual  way  for  that  part 
of  the  country.  The  first  story  was  stone,  and  in  front, 
a  few  narrow  windows  let  light  into  a  kitchen  and  a 
mouldy  sort  of  store-room  ;  the  entrance  to  the  kitchen 
was  at  the  side.  A  flight  of  steps  at  one  side  led  up  to 
a  balcony,  which  I  believe  was  one  of  the  colonel's  im 
provements,  but  it  was  unpainted,  like  the  rest  of  the 
house,  and  had  turned  a  beautiful  gray.  A  trumpet 
creeper,  with  a  stem  like  a  young  tree,  climbed  over  this 
balcony,  and  an  ivy,  with  very  small,  glossy  leaves,  clung 


SEA     BREEZES.  15 

against  the  not  very  firm  shingles  of  the  side  towards 
the  sea,  above  the  kitchen  entrance.  From  the  balcony 
one  saw  the  blue  line  of  ocean  above  the  low  sand-hills 
which  skirted  the  beach.  The  fields  between  us  and  the 
sea  were  perfectly  flat,  and  there  was  not  a  tree  in  sight, 
in  that  direction,  save  the  old  cedar  that  shaded  our  own 
windows,  and  the  few  little  sprigs  that  the  colonel  had 
planted  on  the  road  that  led  to  his  own  house.  It  was 
about  half  a  mile  to  the  sea,  from  our  cottage,  but  it 
looked  much  less.  We  were  the  outpost  of  the  farming 
interest — the  last  house  of  the  village  towards  the  sea. 

We  could  not  get  in  at  the  front  door,  so  Maidy  and 
I  ran  down  the  steps,  and  tumbled  over  Baby,  who  was 
climbing  up  to  meet  us,  and  who,  being  set  on  her  feet, 
joined  us  in  our  researches  in  the  yard.  A  thick  bed  of 
periwinkles  had  rooted  out  the  grass,  and  made  a  great 
expanse  of  dark  glossiness,  and  with  exclamations  of  de 
light  we  pulled  bunches  of  the  dark  blue  flowers  that 
peeped  above  the  leaves.  Maidy  found  dandelions,  too  ; 
she  had  a  Park  acquaintance  with  them,  and  was  charmed 
at  the  rencontre.  The  neglected  old  garden  was  full  of 
green  things  sprouting  up  :  this,  I  knew  to  be  a  bunch 
of  hollyhocks,  from  the  tall  dead  stalks  that  had  survived 
the  winter's  storms  under  the  shelter  of  the  house,  and 
stood  up  about  the  place  of  their  nativity.  These  might 
be  artemisias  for  the  autumn's  joy,  here  was  columbine, 
morning-glory,  the  little  heart-shaped  leaves  of  a  dark- 
blue,  scentless  violet.  And  here,  under  an  old  box-tree, 
grew  a  single  stem  of  lily  of  the  valley.  There  was 
no  trace  of  a  path  anywhere,  nor  of  any  flower-beds ; 
dead  grass  lay  about  the  roots  of  the  new  grass  ;  the  stiff 
dry  stems  of  last  year's  vines  snapped  and  broke  as  I 
leaned  down  to  look  at  the  green  soft  wonders  that  were 


1C  SEA     BREEZES. 

springing  up.  Maidy  was  entangled  in  some  fallen 
branches,  and  Baby  stood  waist-deep  in  ribbon-grass.  I 
extricated  Maidy,  and  lifted  Baby  out,  and  then  we 
pushed  on  towards  the  empty  barn-yard,  and  the  colony 
of  outhouses,  dilapidated  and  unused. 

"  This,  Maidy,  shall  bo  your  playhouse,"  I  cried, 
pulling  open  on  its  rusty  hinges  the  door  of  an  old 
workshop,  from  which  a  lean  cat  darted  forth,  scattering 
dust  and  some  corn  cobs  that  the  rats  had  left. 

"  Whose  is  it  now  ? "  she  said,  looking  wonderingly  in. 

"  Ours,  Maidy,  all  ours,  even  the  big  barn." 

"What  a  sweet  feeling  that  was.  We  climbed  over 
into  the  barn-yard,  we  pried  open  the  bam  door,  we 
lifted  the  lids  of  grain  bins,  we  revelled  in  the  cob 
webs  and  the  dust-heaps,  for  they  belonged  to  us.  The 
poor  little  city  babies  followed  me  with  eager,  ignorant 
exultation.  The  sunshine  was  so  warm  and  delicious, 
the  verdure  I  looked  out  upon  so  new  to  my  starved 
sight,  a  new  current  of  life  seemed  setting  through 
my  veins. 

I  had  led  the  children  far  down  a  narrow  lane  that 
ran  past  the  barn-yard ;  I  don't  know  where  we  meant 
to  go.  The  children's  arms  were  full  of  foolish  treas 
ures,  my  brain  with  fancies  just  about  as  worthless, 
when  our  wanderings  were  brought  to  an  end  by  the 
shrill  call  of  Sophia,  who,  out  of  patience  and  out  of 
breath,  had  run  after  us,  and  had  snatched  Baby  up, 
and  was  talking  at  me  over  her  shoulder  as  she  walked 
back  towards  the  house. 

"  The  child  will  be  starved,"  she  said  "  it's  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  since  we  got  out  of  the  stage,  and 
here  I  have  had  her  dinner  ready  twenty  minutes,  and 
it's  stone  cold  on  the  table,  while  I've  been  hunting  all 


BEA     BREEZES.  17 

over  the  old  rookery  for  you,  and  calling  and  calling 
till  I'm  hoarse." 

Baby  didn't  mind  her  scolding ;  she  knew  how  lit 
tle  it  meant,  for  she  had  been  brought  up  on  it.  She 
stroked  her  nurse's  cheek  with  her  little  soft  hand,  and 
pulled  at  the  ribbon  of  her  hat.  Maidy  and  I  turned 
meekly  and  followed  towards  the  dinner  which  we  cer 
tainly  ought  not  to  have  forgotten.  I  took  Maidy's 
treasures  to  carry,  and  lifted  her  over  some  rough  places 
in  the  lane,  and  in  many  ways  loitered  to  give  Sophia 
a  chance  to  get  ahead  of  us  and  leave  us  to  follow  in 
peace.  But  great  a  hurry  as  she  was  in,  she  would  not 
let  us  get  out  of  hearing :  we  were  to  know  what  she 
had  to  say.  It  was  her  peculiarity :  when  she  got 
worked  up  into  a  mood  like  this,  it  seemed  inevitable 
that  she  should  say  just  so  much,  and  then  a  sullen  and 
possibly  repentant  mood  would  follow,  in  which  we  had 
silence  enough. 

Sophia  could  not  be  considered  like  an  ordinary 
servant.  She  had  come  to  my  mother's  house  a  girl  of 
fourteen,  when  I  was  not  as  old  as  Maidy.  Every  one 
knows  the  intimacy  that  grows  up  between  children 
placed  in  such  relationship.  Sophia  was  my  nurse,  and 
waited  on  me,  though  she  was  scarcely  more  than  a  child 
herself,  but  I  looked  up  to  her  with  great  respect,  and 
loved  her  with  great  affection.  She  had  an  immense  in 
fluence  over  me,  and  my  whole  childhood  bore  her  im 
press.  "When  I  was  married,  she  came  to  me,  naturally, 
and  my  interests  were  hers.  My  mother  could  ill  spare 
her,  being  near  the  close  of  her  lonely,  suffering  life,  but 
I  was  so  very  young,  and  was  going  so  far  away,  it  was 
tacitly  conceded,  Sophia  must  go  with  me. 

As  things  turned  out,  it  seemed  a  mercy  that  she 


18  SEA     BKEEZES. 

did.  My  husband  and  I  were  but  a  pair  of  children ; 
trouble  and  illness  came  fast  enough  ;  my  whole  mar 
ried  life  was  not  three  years.  No  sister  could  have 
been  more  unsparing  of  herself,  no  mother  more  vigil 
ant  and  anxious.  Our  ignorance,  our  slender  means, 
our  youth,  would  have  made  us  very  helpless  without 
this  lynx-eyed  guardian.  For  many  months  after  I  was 
left  a  widow,  she  had,  single-handed  to  take  care  of  me, 
and  of  the  two  babies,  with  the  barest  purse,  and  the 
darkest  outlook.  My  mother  had  died  a  year  before ; 
the  little  property  that  was  coming  to  me  was  in  litiga 
tion  ;  I  had  literally  no  one  to  look  to.  What  did  I  not 
owe  her !  She  had  a  right  to  scold  me  and  to  lead  me 
back  to  dinner  in  disgrace. 

Rather  better  times  were  upon  us  now,  and  she 
would  probably  scold  the  more  in  consequence.  The 
lawsuit  had  been  recently  decided  in  my  favor,  and  the 
small  property  that  my  mother  left  was  now  mine.  It 
was  well  invested ;  the  income  from  it,  though  not  large, 
was  as  certain  as  such  things  can  be.  We  should  never 
be  called  upon  to  go  through  the  experiences  of  the 
past  two  or  three  years,  and  with  economy  we  could  be 
comfortable,  and  I  could  educate  the  children,  and  live 
respectably,  and  not  be  oppressed  with  care  for  the  fu 
ture.  It  was  heaven  to  feel  this,  after  the  long  pressure 
of  anxiety,  but  though  I  had  known  the  facts  for  two 
months,  I  had  not  seemed  to  realize  them  till  I  had 
breathed  this  air  and  got  out  of  the  surroundings  so 
associated  with  suffering. 

When  we  got  to  the  kitchen  door,  I  remembered,  as 
I  laid  down  Makly's  treasures  on  the  stone,  that  I  had  not 
yet  been  in  the  house,  and  I  said  this,  with  a  little  laugh, 
to  Maidy. 


SEA     BREEZES.  19 

"  It's  fine  housekeeping  that  begins  with  the  outside 
of  the  house,"  snapped  Sophia,  settling  Baby  in  a  chair 
by  the  table,  while  the  Indian  woman  put  the  omelette, 
and  the  bread  and  butter,  and  the  tea  upon  the  table. 

"What  a  dear  old  kitchen,"  I  said,  going  to  look 
out  a  latticed  door  that  opened  into  a  sort  of  covered 
place,  with  one  side  open  to  the  yard,  and  with  the 
well  just  before  it.  "  Maidy,  I  shall  draw  the  well." 

"It's  more  than  I  shall,"  cried  Sophia,  "and  I'm 
inclined  to  think  you'll  find  your  kitchen  dear,  before 
the  summer's  over,  sure  enough,  if  you  count  all  the 
help  you'll  have  to  hire  to  get  your  work  done  in  it." 

I  did  not  dare  admire  it  any  more  after  that,  but  sat 
down  humbly  beside  Maidy,  and  was  served  with  a  meal 
anything  but  cold,  which  we  all  ate  with  appetites  which 
even  Sophia  could  not  disapprove. 


CHAPTER  II. 

VIVAT  EEX. 

"  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  color." 

As  You  Like  It. 

TWO  days  followed,  during  which  my  pleasure  in 
my  new  home  was  unabated.  I  continued  to  keep 
house  outside,  and  Sophia,  now  somewhat  mollified,  to 
get  in  order  the  inside.  It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
second  day ;  I  had  got  my  blue  flannel  suit  out  of  a 
trunk  (or  perhaps  Sophia  had)  and  had  put  it  on  for  the 
first  time,  together  with  a  shade  hat  which  she  had 
trimmed  for  me  when  we  first  began  to  talk  of  the  sea 
side.  It  was  very  odd  not  to  be  wearing  a  black  dress, 
but  it  all  seemed  in  keeping  with  the  free,  new  life. 
Maidy  admired  me  very  much,  and  insisted  upon  kissing 
me.  She  was  only  five  years  old,  but  she  had  a  great 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  had  been  distressed,  I 
believe,  by  my  great  crape  veil  ever  since  we  came  to 
the  country.  She  and  Baby  were  fresh  and  pretty  in 
their  flannel  dresses,  and  white  sunbonnets,  and  thus 
we  all  went  out  for  a  walk,  leaving  Sophia  at  the  gate, 
looking  after  the  work  of  her  hands  with  some  pardon 
able  satisfaction. 

For  were  we  not,  in  a  sense,  the  work  of  her  hands, 
blue  flannel  dresses  and  all  ?  I  always  have  believed  the 
children  would  never  have  lived  but  for  her  care,  and  I 

[20] 


VIVAT    KEX.  21 

know  I  shouldn't.  And  as  to  the  blue  flannel  dress  and 
the  coarse  straw  hat,  I  should  never  have  had  them  but 
fur  her  intervention.  I  had  not  wanted  anything  for 
the  last  three  years  but  to  be  let  alone  to  cry  my  eyes 
out  under  the  crape  veil  supplied  to  me  by  fate.  Susan 
leaned  for  a  few  moments  over  the  gate  and  looked  after 
us,  with  a  softness  in  her  black  eyes ;  it  must  have  com 
forted  her  to  see  me  look  so  young  and  well  again ;  and 
the  children,  for  whom  she  had  so  labored,  walked 
demure  and  prim  beside  me  in  the  soft  spring  sunshine. 
I  think  she  felt  that  afternoon  as  if  the  warfare  were 
over,  and  the  day  of  peace  fairly  risen  in  the  sky. 

Baby  was  but  three  years  old,  and  had  to  be  very 
much  aided  when  we  went  to  walk.  I  did  not  propose 
to  go  very  far,  but  the  temptation  of  a  new  road  led  me 
on,  and  long  before  I  knew  it,  we  were  a  good  way  from 
home  across  the  level  country,  and  the  sun  was  declin 
ing  slowly.  Maidy  was  very  fresh  and  bright,  but  Baby 
was  beginning  to  lag  behind  and  fret  a  little,  and  I  began 
to  think  it  was  a  pity  that  we  had  come  so  far.  "VVe  had 
not  reached  the  sea  yet,  though  we  were  very  near  it, 
and  could  hear  the  waves  breaking  on  the  shore,  though 
the  sand-hills  hid  them  from  us. 

We  had  been  walking  for  some  time  on  a  road  that 
ran  parallel  to  the  beach,  and  now  I  found  myself  on  a 
narrow  lane  that  crossed  it  and  went  down  through  an 
opening  to  the  water's  edge.  The  road  was  a  little  lower 
than  the  field,  and  I  sat  down  on  the  bank,  and  took 
Baby  on  my  lap,  and  pulled  some  wild  roses  from  a  bush 
beside  me  and  ornamented  her  hat  with  them,  and  tried 
to  amuse  her  and  get  her  rested.  Maidy  strayed  off  in 
pursuit  of  more  wild  roses.  Rex,  the  dog,  lay  at  my 
feet  and  panted  after  his  exertions.  He  was  a  French 


22  VIVAT    EEX. 

poodle,  with  soft,  white,  curling  hair  and  lovely  pink 
skin  under  it ;  he  had  a  temper  as  infirm  as  Sophia's,  and 
eyes  as  black,  but  much  more  tender  in  their  expression. 
We  loved  him  beyond  language,  but  he  barked  nearly 
all  the  time,  and  was  a  great  inconvenience.  Baby  now 
began  patting  him,  and,  rested,  got  up,  toddled  about  on 
the  uneven  ground  and  pulled  grass  and  flowers,  and 
scrambled  up  one  rail  of  the  fence,  and  down  again  and 
up  again,  and  so  on.  I  clasped  my  hands  around  my 
knees  and  sat  looking  over  the  long  line  of  fields  across 
which  the  level  shadows  were  stretching,  breathing  the 
air  fresh  from  the  sea,  and  listening  to  the  roll  of  the 
surf  beyond.  The  sunshine  was  still  warm  and  delicious ; 
some  birds  chirped  about  the  bushes  near  me ;  Baby's 
happy  little  chatter  sounded  as  intelligible ;  when  Rex, 
starting  from  my  feet,  gave  a  furious  bark,  and  dashed 
down  the  lane,  along  which  a  troop  of  cows,  two  loose 
horses,  and  a  bull,  were  coming  rapidly. 

I  sprang  up  and  got  Baby  by  the  hand,  and  called 
vehemently  to  Rex  to  come  back  to  me.  He,  instead, 
ran  barking  at  the  heels  of  the  cows,  who,  frightened, 
kicked  and  ran  and  looked  back  at  him,  and  kicked 
again,  and  the  horses  shook  their  manes  and  raised  their 
heads,  and  looked  as  if  they  might  do  any  fearful  thing 
under  such  a  provocation.  The  peaceful  lane  became 
suddenly  a  scene  of  great  tumult  and  confusion.  I  don't 
know  where  the  cows  had  come  from,  nor  how  they  had 
got  upon  us  with  so  little  observation ;  I  suppose  I  must 
have  been  very  much  lost  in  my  revery ;  I  did  not  dare 
to  run  down  the  bank  after  the  dog,  whose  destruction 
seemed  imminent,  among  all  those  hoofs  and  horns.  1 
held  Baby  by  the  hand,  and  going  as  near  the  edge  of 
the  bank  as  I  could,  I  called  despairingly,  and  then  tried 


VIVAT    EEX.  23 

to  whistle.  I  could  not  whistle ;  I  never  could.  I  pursed 
up  my  mouth  with  effort,  and  no  doubt  made  a  very 
ludicrous  face,  but  all  the  sound  that  came  was  a  very 
faint  affair,  like  an  aspirated  sigh,  which  of  course  the 
dog  could  not  hear.  I  felt  like  crying,  I  was  so  full  of 
trouble  and  excitement.  At  that  moment,  directly  at 
my  elbow,  I  found  some  one  standing.  I  turned  quickly, 
and  looked  into  the  face  of  a  young  man,  who  had  come 
upon  the  scene  as  mysteriously  as  the  cows. 

"  Shall  I  whistle  for  you  ?"  he  said,  with  gravity, 
though  his  eyes  were  very  merry. 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  would,"  I  cried,  with  no  sense  of 
the  humor  of  the  situation.  "  I  am  sure  he  will  be 
killed,  and  I'm  afraid  of  the  cows." 

Thereupon  he  whistled,  a  clear  shrill  whistle,  that 
arrested  the  attention  of  the  dog,  who  halted  for  an 
instant,  turned  .his  head  towards  us,  and  then  dashed 
on,  with  renewed  zest,  after  the  bull,  who  was  putting 
down  his  head  angrily. 

"  He  will  be  killed,"  I  exclaimed,  dropping  Baby, 
and  wringing  my  hands. 

The  stranger  sprang  down  the  bank,  dashed  in 
among  the  horns  and  hoofs,  and,  making  a  plunge  at 
the  dog,  caught  him.  by  the  hair,  and  bore  him  wrig 
gling  and  barking  back  to  me,  and  put  him  in  my  arms. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  I  said,  but  I  don't  suppose  he 
heard  me  above  the  racket  that  the  dog  and  the  cows 
were  making.  I  struggled  to  hold  him,  and  to  keep 
him  quiet,  but  Baby  was  tugging  at  my  dress,  and,  look 
ing  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  I  caught  sight  of 
poor  Maidy,  who  was,  from  the  contortions  of  her  face, 
probably  crying  loudly,  but  1  couldn't  hear  anything 
but  the  yelping  of  the  cur  arid  the  lowing  of  the  cows. 


24:  VIVAT    KEX. 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  her.  She  was  clinging  to  the 
fence  (the  wrong  side  of  it),  of  course,  and  in  a  very 
ecstasy  of  fear,  for  which  there  was  much  excuse,  as  the 
cows  were  upon  her  side  of  the  bank,  and  she  was 
really  in  danger  of  being  walked  over  by  the  great  crea 
tures,  even  if  they  had  no  evil  intention  towards  her. 

"Shall  I  bring  your  little  sister  to  you  ?"  said  the 
sedate  stranger,  who  again  accomplished  the  feat  of 
fording  the  current  of  cows,  and  who  sprang  up  the 
bank  lithely,  and  stood  by  the  terrified  little  child 
almost  before  I  had  taken  in  his  question.  He  waa 
small  and  slight ;  at  the  first  glance  I  should  have  said 
he  was  eighteen,  at  the  second,  twenty-eight.  He  waa 
close  shaved,  and  his  hair  was  very  dark,  and  as  short 
as  it  could  be  cut.  He  was  very  sunburned ;  his  eyea 
were  keen  and  dark  ;  his  nose  was  well  cut,  his  mouth 
rather  large.  He  was  dressed  in  knickerbockers,  with 
a  blue  flannel  shirt  and  red  belt,  and  wore  a  little, 
close-fitting  cap,  also  blue,  I  think. 

I  looked  anxiously  to  see  how  Maidy  would  take 
the  approach  of  a  stranger.  She  was  a  very  timid 
child,  and  I  was  always  prepared,  from  experience,  to 
see  her  go  into  a  frenzy  of  crying,  if  any  one  came 
near  her  whom  she  did  not  know.  It  was  a  comforta 
ble  surprise,  now,  to  see  her  suspend  her  sobs,  look  up 
into  the  stranger's  face,  let  him  take  her  hand,  and 
finally  lift  her  up  in  his  arms.  She  was  small  and 
light  for  five  years  old  (such  a  pretty  doll,  with  her 
long,  loose,  yellow  curls,  and  large  blue  eyes).  He 
lifted  her  up  on  his  right  arm,  and  drew  one  of  her 
little  hands  around  his  neck,  and  held  it  in  his  left. 
He  was  talking  to  her  softly  all  the  while,  with  his 
face  close  to  hers.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  afraid 


V1VAT    KEX.  25 

of  him,  nor  of  the  cows,  but  listened  with  parted  lips 
and  a  serious  look,  the  tears  still  on  her  cheeks. 

The  rear-guard  of  the  cows  was  now  passing  us. 
lie  waited  a  moment,  then  skirted  the  end  of  the  pro 
cession,  and  brought  her  back  to  me.  He  set  her  down 
on  her  feet  on  the  bank  beside  me,  keeping  hold  of 
her  little  hand  till  she  was  standing  firm,  then,  in  a 
graceful  sort  of  way,  stooped  down  and  kissed  it  before 
he  released  it.  He  lifted  his  cap  to  me,  almost  without 
looking  at  me,  and  was  gone.  My  eyes  followed  him 
with  a  sort  of  wondering  admiration  of  his  light,  quick 
movements ;  a  cart,  which  I  had  not  seen  in  the  melee, 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him  in  the  road  which  I  had 
just  left.  He  sprang  into  it,  and  the  young  lad  who 
was  driving  it  looked  curiously  and  amusedly  towards 
us,  and  I  was  quite  sure  was  laughing^at  something 
that  he  told  him  of  us.  The  cart  was  one  of  those 
two-wheeled  joggling  things,  known  as  beach  carts. 
There  were  some  crab-nets  in  it,  and  a  basket  covered 
up  with  sea-weed.  The  horse  was  a  nice-looking  cob, 
who  in  a  few  moments  had  joggled  them,  not  out  of 
sight,  that  would  have  been  difficult  in  a  country 
where  one  could  see  one's  friends  coining  to  call  three 
miles  oft',  but  out  of  a  critical  neighborhood.  That  is 
to  say,  they  were  soon  so  far  away  I  couldn't  tell 
whether  they  were  laughing  at  me  or  not.  They  drove 
through  the  herd  of  cows  as  if  they  were  not  afraid  of 
them  ;  the  clumsy  things  scattered  to  right  and  left ;  I 
began  to  see  they  were  lean  and  high-shouldered  crea 
tures,  who  probably  wouldn't  have  done  us  any  harm. 
The  troop  settled  down  into,  a  comfortable  jog,  and 
across  the  level  landscape  I  could  see  them  moving  on, 
marked  by  a  little  cloud  of  dust.  I  put  Rex  on  the 
2 


26 

ground,  with   an  admonitory  shake,  and  helped   the 
children  through  the  fence. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you,  Maidy,"  I  asked,  as  I 
wiped  the  tears  off  her  face,  and  set  right  her  some 
what  distorted  skirts. 

"  He  said  he  would  take  me  to  my  sister,"  she 
answered. 

"  Your  sister,  indeed  !  Well,  what  was  he  talking 
about  all  the  rest  of  the  time  ?" 

"  He  told  me  not  to  be  afraid  of  the  cows ;  he  said, 
they  wouldn't  hurt  me.  He  held  me  tight." 

"  All,  were  you  afraid  ?" 

"No,  he  held  me  so  high  up,  like  the  milkman." 

I  laughed.  Maidy  had  a  great  liking  for  being 
lifted  up  in  the  strong  arms  of  a  man  ;  poor  child,  she 
had  had  little  experience  of  it,  the  milkman  being 
about  our  only  male  visitor  since  she  had  been  old 
enough  to  remember. 

"  Which  do  you  think  is  the  nicest,  this  gentleman 
who  carried  you  across  the  road  just  now,  or  the  milk 
man  ?" 

But  Maidy's  feelings  were  hurt  by  my  laugh,  and 
she  put  down  her  head,  and  would  not  answer. 

"  It's  all  right,  dear  little  one,"  I  said,  kissing  her,  and 
leading  her  on  to  join  Baby.  "  You  like  to  be  carried, 
I  know ;  you  can't  remember  how  Papa  used  to  carry 
his  little  girl,  hours  and  hours  together,  when  she  was 
a  baby,  and  was  sick,  and  couldn't  go  to  sleep."  And 
the  tears  rushed  into  my  eyes  at  the  recollection. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  whispered  Maidy,  holding  tight 
my  hand.  Dear  Maicjy  ;  how  she  loved  to  hear  those 
stories.  She  had  been  my  only  confidante,  these  sad 
years ;  twilight  after  twilight,  while  Sophia  plied  her 


YIVAT    REX.  27 

busy  needle,  and  rocked  the  baby,  in  another  room, 
Maidy,  in  the  dark,  had  lain  in  my  arms,  and  listened  to 
stories  of  the  father  whom  she  could  not  recollect.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  was  good  for  her  or  good  for  me.  I 
almost  fear  these  three  years  had  been  very  morbid 
ones.  I  had  acknowledged  to  myself  no  duty  but  the 
duty  of  keeping  fresh  the  past ;  perhaps  I  had  resisted 
the  natural  reaction  that  might  have  come  if  I  had 
been  passive.  But,  indeed,  the  circumstances  of  my 
life  had  been  all  against  any  such  reaction ;  I  ought  not 
to  blame  myself  too  much.  The  dullness  and  gloom 
of  my  surroundings  made  me  turn  my  gaze  back  into 
the  past,  where  once  there  had  been  light.  If  in  my 
grief  there  was  selfishness,  at  least  there  was  no  rebel 
lion.  I  only  asked  leave  to  hide  myself  and  weep. 

How  far  Maidy 's  timidity  and  frail  health  were  the 
result  of  this  treatment,  I  cannot  tell.  I  did  not  think 
I  was  injuring  her,  Heaven  knows.  She  was  my  only 
comfort.  Sophia  had  such  an  acrid  way  of  putting  my 
duty  before  me  that  I  unwisely  discredited  all  she  said. 
She  left  me  nothing  to  do,  with  her  tremendous  en 
ergy  and  activity,  and  as  to  what  she  counselled  me  to 
feel,  it  was  not  surprising  that  I  did  not  consider  that 
she  knew  enough  of  the  grief  to  know  its  remedy.  She 
had  loved  poor  Arnold  almost  as  much  as  she  loved  me, 
but  it  was  not  her  way  to  sit  down  and  cry  about  any 
thing,  and  it  must  be  said,  in  this  strait,  there  was  not 
much  time  for  the  luxury  of  tears  for  her.  If  she  had 
not  bestirred  herself,  what  would  have  been  our  fate  ? 
But  it  was  an  abiding  subject  of  complaint  with  her 
that  I  took  no  interest  in  anything,  that  I  was,  as  she 
expressed  it,  nursing  my  grief  and  making  much  of  it. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  murmured  Maidy  that  evening, 


28  VIVAT    BEX. 

as  we  walked  home  under  the  soft  sunset  sky.  The 
grass  was  growing  a  little  damp ;  sweet  smells  came  up 
from  the  close-cropped  fields  over  which  we  walked ; 
the  solemn  monotone  of  the  sea  beyond  sounded  in  our 
ears.  I  told  her;  but  somehow  'the  telling  was  not  as 
it  used  to  be,  in  the  close-shut,  dim  room,  with  the  low 
roar  of  the  city  coming  up  from  below.  Our  grief  was 
a  sort  of  hot-house  plant,  that  did  not  seem  at  home  in 
this  free  air.  Maidy  vaguely  felt  dissatisfied.  She 
looked  up  in  my  face  again  and  again ;  she  even 
twitched  my  dress  once  reproachfully  when  my  eyes 
wandered  to  the  sunset,  and  my  narrative  flagged  in  its 
flow. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more,  Maidy,"  I  said ;  "  I 
want  to  look  at  the  sunset  gates,  and  think  about  Para 
dise." 

Then  I  felt  a  pang  of  self-reproach ;  I  could  not 
bear  to  be  dishonest  with  the  child  ;  I  was  not  thinking 
of  Paradise  ;  I  was  feeling  the  calm  and  hush  of  nature, 
full  and  sweet ;  the  glories  of  God's  lower  world,  where 
all  the  senses  were  fed  with  health  and  with  content. 
The  shadowy  world  into  which  we  had  looked  from 
that  dark,  silent  chamber,  had  receded  far  out  of  my 
self-accusing  sight. 

"  I  mean,"  I  said,  putting  my  arm  about  her  neck, 
"  I  am  tired  of  talking,  and  just  feel  like  being  quiet. 
Besides,  I  think  I  ought  to  carry  Baby." 

Baby  was  again  getting  a  little  cross — she  was  willful 
always,  as  different  as  possible  from  Maidy.  She  was 
tiny  ;  with  such  hands  !  I  think  they  were  the  prettiest 
things.  She  was  all  so  perfect  and  so  pretty.  Her  eyes 
were  gray  and  her  lashes  dark  ;  she  had  not  much  hair, 
but  it  was  wavy  and  of  a  chestnut  color.  Her  throat  was 


VIVAT    KEX.  29 

very  slender,  and  I  never  was  tired  of  looking  at  the 
way  she  held  her  determined  little  head.  Dear  little 
Baby — everything  she  did  seemed  so  wonderful,  being 
done  by  a  creature  so  minute.  We  were  in  the  habit 
of  thinking  her  a  prodigy,  but  I  suppose,  really,  it 
came  from  her  being  so  much  smaller  than  a  child  of 
three  years  ought  to  be. 

It  was  not  much  of  a  trial  to  carry  her,  but  I  was 
glad  to  hand  her  over  to  Sophia,  and  to  go  into  the 
house,  which  we  did  by  the  side  door  of  the  kitchen, 
where  our  tea  was  spread.  In  a  day  or  two,  when 
things  were  more  in  order,  we  were  going  to  move  up 
stairs  to  the  room  above,  and  take  our  meals  on  a  thin- 
legged  little  mahogany  table,  which  the  Indian  woman 
had  spent  some  hours  in  polishing.  The  furniture  of 
the  room  was  rather  scanty  and  the  floor  had  a  rag  car 
pet  on  it ;  but  there  was  a  corner  closet  with  a  glass 
door,  and  a  very  small  supply  of  blue  china  cups  and 
saucers,  and  five  plates.  These  atoned  for  the  other 
defects  and  made  it  possible  for  me  to  feel  I  had  a  din 
ing-room.  Meanwhile,  the  kitchen  was  warm  and  snug, 
and  each  meal  that  we  had  eaten  in  it  had  seemed 
better  than  the  other. 

"Sophia,"  I  said,  dropping  the  sugar  in  my  tea, 
"we  have  had  an  adventure.  Maidy  and  Hex  were 
almost  under  the  feet  of  a  herd  of  cows,  and  a  young 
man  suddenly  appeared  and  rescued  them.  You  may 
ask  why  I  didn't,  but  the  truth  was,  I  was  afraid ;  it 
was  bad  enough  to  look  on." 

Sophia  did  not  appear  to  listen — she  never  appeared 
to  listen;  it  was  one  of 'her  characteristics  to  put  her 
own  occupations  before  the  communications  of  others, 
though  I  don't  think  she  ever  lost  much.  She  went  on 


30  VIVAT    REX. 

buttering  Maidy's  bread,  as  she  stood  over  her  chair, 
and  pouring  out  Baby's  milk,  without  even  looking  in 
my  direction. 

Maidy,  with  her  mouth  full  of  bread  and  butter, 
said,  "  He  carried  me,"  but  Sophia  only  asked  whether 
she'd  have  more  hot  water  in  her  milk,  with  the  pitcher 
suspended  over  her  mug,  and  manifested  no  sort  of  inter 
est  in  the  matter.  It  was  long  years  since  I  had  presumed 
to  find  any  fault  with  Sophia's  habits,  even  tacitly,  but 
the  sea  air  seem  ed  to  be  affecting  me  radically.  I  resolved 
she  shouldn't  know  anything  about  the  adventure  till 
she  asked  about  it.  So  I  said  the  Shinnecock  made 
beautiful  muffins,  and  took  another  one,  and  then  told 
her  I  should  be  almost  sorry  when  we  went  up-stairs  to 
dine,  it  was  so  pleasant  in  the  kitchen.  The  tins  shone 
in  the  light  of  the  parlor  lamp,  which  was  on  the  table, 
the  stove  doors  were  open,  and  the  fire  within  shed 
forth  a  cheerful  glow.  She  was  not  pleased  with  me, 
I  could  tell ;  she  shot  a  quick  glance  at  me  to  see  what 
I  could  mean,  and  was  in  a  bad  humor  all  the  rest  of 
the  evening.  As  she  was  putting  Maidy  to  bed,  I  heard 
her  asking  some  leading  questions,  which  resulted  in 
Maidy's  telling  the  story  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 
From  that  little  point,  perhaps,  started  her  opposition 
to  me  in  all  that  concerned  my  new  life. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MISFITS. 

"Thou  hast  iny  love;  is  not  that  neighborly?" 

As  You  Like  It. 

FROM  the  balcony,  and  in  fact  from  all  the  south 
windows  of  the  cottage,  I  could  see  the  house 
of  my  landlord,  Colonel  Ernlyn.  lie  was,  in  fact,  the 
only  summer  resident  of  the  place.  He  had  several  years 
before,  in  a  casual  visit  to  the  village,  been  smitten  with 
it,  and,  as  rich  men  will,  had  built  a  house  far  too  expen 
sive  for  the  place,  and  then,  vaguely  conscious  of  his 
error,  had  tried  to  remedy  it  by  investing  more  money 
in  more  land,  and  building  two  or  three  cottages  to  rent. 
The  cottages  had  never  rented,  the  place  was  as  far  as 
ever  from  being  a  summer  resort.  The  colonel  did  not 
go  the  right  way  to  work.  He  was  not  fond  of  society 
himself,  but  he  supposed  the  two  children  whom  they 
were  bringing  up  would  soon  be ;  and  for  their  sakes, 
he  would  have  been  glad  of  a  neighbor  or  two  who 
would  be  agreeable,  and  he  had  had  visions  of  seeing 
the  place  become  popular  enough  to  bring  back  to  his 
pocket  a  very  small  percentage  of  what  he  had  invested 
there. 

One  chilly  March  day,  when  the  cottages  were  first 
built,  a  very  important,  fashionable  woman  had  come 
down  to  look  at  them,  having  heard  of  them  from  the 

[31] 


32  MISFITS. 

colonel  himself.  There  was  a  high,  rough  wind,  the 
diiver  of  the  stage  hadn't  been  over  civil,  the  lady's  head 
ached  from  having  got  up  so  early,  the  shut  up  houses 
naturally  looked  dismal  and  felt  damp — she  went  back 
by  the  next  train  in  disgust,  and  told  the  story  of  her 
journey  at  every  dinner  for  the  next  six  weeks.  All  the 
people  who  had  been  asking  questions  about  South  Ber 
wick  were  dismayed  and  gave  up  the  thought.  One 
sheep  having  turned  away  and  jumped  over  the  bars,  all 
the  others,  with  mutton  gravity,  jumped  over  too,  and 
left  the  colonel  with  his  houses  on  his  hands. 

I  had  been  wondering  whether  the  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Ernlyn  would  come  to  see  me.  It  had  seemed  to  me 
that  it  would  be  very  unpleasant  if  they  didn't.  I  had 
cast  a  great  many  curious  glances  over  at  the  large 
house  whose  outlines  were  so  clear  against  the  sky.  I 
could  see  figures  sometimes  on  the  piazza,  though  it  was 
impossible  to  distinguish  them.  Whenever  the  carriage 
came  out  of  the  gate,  I  watched  with  interest  to  see 
who  was  in  it.  The  beach  cart  I  knew  belonged  there, 
and  the  young  man  who  had  picked  Rex  up  by  the 
hair,  and  the  young  lad  who  had  laughed  at  us.  With 
all  my  watching,  I  did  not  know  any  one  else  by  sight. 

The  house  was  about  half  a  mile  from  us,  facing  the 
ocean.  It  was  a  large  house,  long  in  proportion  to  its 
breadth,  with  a  gambril  roof  and  dormer  windows,  and 
a  great  stack  of  chimneys  in  the  center.  The  kitchen  and 
other  offices  were  on  the  ground  floor.  A  great  veranda 
ran  all  around  the  second  story,  and  overlooked  the  low 
sand-hills,  which  in  this  part  of  the  coast  skirt  the  sea 
invariably.  There  was,  at  a  little  distance,  a  colony  of 
stables  and  outhouses.  There  was  no  pretense  of  keep 
ing  the  grounds  in  order.  The  entrance  was  through  a 


MISFITS.  33 

plain  gateway ;  a  few  trees  had  been  set  out,  but  had 
made  little  progress.  The  house  honestly  declared  itself 
there  for  the  sea  and  for  nothing  else,  and  it  was  suffi 
cient  reason  for  being. 

One  morning,  not  long  after  the  adventure  that  I 
would  not  tell  to  Sophia,  I  sat  on  the  balcony  rather 
idly  sewing,  and  looked,  as  people  do  in  the  country, 
idly  across  towards  the  house  of  my  neighbor.  I  saw 
the  carriage  come  out  from  the  stable,  and  drive  up  to 
the  door,  and  presently  some  one  get  in.  1  could  see 
some  drapery  which  did  not  belong  to  a  man  :  I  began 
to  wonder  if  it  were  Mrs.  Emlyn,  and  if  she  were  corn 
ing  to  see  me.  I  ran  into  the  parlor  and  opened  the 
windows  to  let  more  sunlight  in,  and  looked  in  the  glass 
to  see  if  my  hair  were  right,  and  then,  a  little  flurried, 
came  out  again  and  sat  down  with  my  work.  I  heard 
the  voices  of  the  children,  playing  in  the  yard  below, 
and  wondered  whether,  if  Mrs.  Emlyn  did  call,  she  would 
ask  to  see  them.  It  is  quite  agitating  to  have  visits 
when  you  are  not  in  the  habit  of  having  them.  The 
carriage  was  now  out  of  the  gate,  and  coming  up  the 
road ;  it  was  certainly  coming  this  way,  but  this  way 
led  to  the  village,  to  the  post-office,  to  the  station — to 
everything.  It  was  coming  quite  fast,  too ;  the  stout, 
well-groomed  horses  made  very  good  time,  and  the  road 
was  hard,  and,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say,  level.  The  car 
riage  was  not  very  new  in  style,  but  comfortable  and  in 
good  order.  Yes,  they  were  coming  here ;  the  horses 
drew  up  at  the  gate ;  behind  the  trumpet  creeper  I 
agitatedly  watched  a  lady  get  out,  after  a  middle-aged 
man,  who,  of  course,  was  Colonel  Emlyn. 

The  lady  came  in  at  the  gate,  the  gentleman  followed 
her,  looking  down  at  the-  latch,  and  feeling  its  rustiness 
2* 


34:  MISFITS. 

with  a  landlord's  touch.  The  lady  was  very  tall,  quite 
an  inch  taller  than  her  husband,  and  of  a  full  and  good 
figure.  She  walked  quickly,  and  with  an  erect  bearing ; 
she  was  very  near-sighted,  and  looked  keenly  through 
her  glasses.  Her  hair  was  almost  white,  in  little  curls 
above  her  forehead  ;  in  contradiction,  she  had  a  young 
complexion,  and  a  soft  color  on  her  cheeks.  Her  man 
ner  was  most  decisive,  while  her  voice  was  very  sweet. 
Her  movements  were  abrupt ;  you  were  deadly  afraid  of 
her  till  you  looked  into  her  face.  When  her  face  was 
in  repose,  it  was  as  sweet  as  a  child's ;  but  even  when  it 
was  ruffled,  you  soon  concluded  to  take  heart  and  hope 
for  happier  times,  which  were  on  the  way.  When  she 
came  up  on  the  balcony  it  was  with  a  firm  tread,  but 
the  foot  that  I  saw,  as  she  stepped  up,  was,  by  a  natural 
contradiction,  small  and  pretty.  She  looked  about  her 
for  the  bell  or  the  knocker,  not  seeing  me.  I  had 
arisen,  and  was  corning  forward  from  the  other  end  of 
the  balcony. 

"  Here  is  the  young  lady,"  said  the  colonel,  who  was 
just  behind  her. 

"  Oh,  where  ?"  she  said,  peering  around ;  and  then 
caught  sight  of  me. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  meeting  me  ;  "  I 
hope  we  shall  find  your  mother  at  home."  She  did  not 
give  me  time  to  answer,  but  added  quickly :  "  I  suppose 
we  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  her  daughter?" 

I  colored  very  much  and  said  who  I  was. 

" You ?"  she  cried  incredulously.  "I  —  I  —  well, 
you  must  excuse  me.  It  isn't  your  fault  that  you  look 
so  young.  People  generally  don't  mind  it,  though." 

Then  the  colonel  came  forward  and  she  presented 
him.  and  I  asked  them  to  come  into  the  parlor.  When 


MISFITS.  35 

they  were  seated,  she  still  kept  talking  of  the  question 
of  my  identity,  and  smiling  at  the  recollection  of  her 
mistake. 

The  colonel  said,  "  You  must  excuse  us.  It  comes 
of  making  up  one's  mind  on  insufficient  premises.  We 
only  knew  through  our  friend,  the  doctor,  what  our 
new  tenant's  name  was,  and  that  she  was  a  widow." 

(I  wonder  if  he  saw  me  wince.) 

"  The  other  day,"  went  on  the  colonel,  "  Mr. 
Macnally  and  Ned  came  home  and  told  us  they  had 
seen  a  young  girl  and  some  little  children  down  below 
the  meadows,  and  we  concluded  that  they  were  all  the 
lady's  children." 

"Besides,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Emlyn,  "Ned  said  he 
had  seen  an  older  —  person  —  on  the  beach  with  the 
children.  We  came  to  the  conclusion  this  was  she." 

"  That  is  Sophia,  the  children's  nurse.  She  was  my 
nurse  too  ;  she  has  always  lived  with  us.  She  manages 
everything." 

This  I  said  with  a  desire  to  make  a  greater  show 
of  respectability.  I  had  a  feeling  that  the  colonel 
would  want  to  cancel  the  lease,  that  he  would  not  in 
trust  his  premises  to  such  an  unmatronly  person.  I 
began  to  feel  myself  more  insignificant  than  ever. 
They  had  come  to  see  me  under  a  delusion.  I  felt  it 
an  incongruity  that  such  a  person  as  I  should  be  called 
upon.  Mrs.  Emlyn  looked  so  grand  and  imposing.  She 
had  almost  touched  the  ceiling  when  she  stood  up.  She 
was  not  so  very  far  from  it  now  that  she  sat  down. 

"  I  hope  you  like  it  here,"  she  said,  "  and  that  it 
agrees  with  your  children — they  are  your  children  ? " 
she  added,  interrogatively,  doubtful  of  all  her  conclu 
sions. 


36  MISFITS. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered,  most  uncomfortable. 

"  It  sounds  exactly  as  if  Mrs.  Emlyn  looked  upon  you 
as  a  fraud,"  said  the  colonel,  coming  to  my  help. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  returned,  with  decision;  "but 
when  you  don't  know  people,  you  must  ask  questions. 
You  don't  think  there  is  any  thing  to  object  to  in  being 
asked  questions,  do  you  ?" 

I  tried  to  say  I  didn't,  but  as  it  was  a  false  state 
ment,  I  don't  believe  I  made  it  very  forcibly,  and  it 
made  me  seem  younger  and  more  inefficient  than  ever. 
He  certainly,  I  thought,  will  take  the  house  away  from 
us. 

"  You've  been  ill,  some  of  you,  I  take  it,  since  the 
doctor  sent  you  here,"  went  on  Mrs.  Emlyn. 

She  certainly  had  very  small  grounds  to  base  her 
conclusions  on,  and  was  not  to  be  blamed  for  wishing 
to  enlarge  them.  I  began  to  think  it  would  have  been 
kind  in  the  doctor  to  have  told  them  something  about 
us,  but  he  was  a  great  and  a  busy  doctor,  and  had  to  be 
content  "with  sketching  his  good  deeds  in  outline.  1 
told  her  I  had  been  ill  a  good  deal  for  two  or  three 
years,  and  that  the  children  were  both  delicate,  particu 
larly  the  elder. 

"  Are  they  girls  or  boys  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Emlyn,  and 
when  I  told  their  ages,  she  looked  disappointed. 

"  But  of  course,"  she  said,  "  they  could  not  be  any 
older — "  and  then  she  made  a  pause. 

I  struggled  with  myself ;  I  wanted  to  put  myself 
right  with  these  so  important  people  ;  my  voice  trem 
bled  when  I  said,  "  I  am  older  than  you  think  me ;  I 
was  married  when  I  was  eighteen,  that  is  six  years  ago. 
Now  I  am  twenty-four." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said  with,  a  sigh,  and  a  look  of  compas- 


MISFITS.  37 

sion.  Then,  regaining  herself,  she  said,  "  I  was  hoping 
to  find  the  children  old  enough  to  be  playmates  for 
Naomi.  "We  have,"  she  went  on,  in  an  explanatory 
tone,  "two  children,  a  nephew  and  a  niece,  whom  we 
are  bringing  up.  The  little  girl  is  lonely,  she  has  no 
companions ;  but  she  is  twelve  years  old.  Ned  has  his 
tutor,  who  is  about  as  much  of  a  boy  as  he,  and  they 
are  always  out  and  having  a  good  time,  but  Naomi  is 
lonely,  I  wish  the  children  were  older." 

"I  don't  think  Naomi  pines,"  said  the  colonel. 
"  She  is  always  happy  enough  when  I  see  anything  of 
her,  racing  about  the  beach,  or  driving  Ruby  before 
the  beach  cart." 

"  Yes,  and  how  often  does  she  get  a  chance  to  drive 
Ruby  ?  Ned  and  Mr.  Macnally  have  the  cart  all  the 
time,  and  Naomi  has  to  amuse  herself  the  best  way  she 
can.  If  she  weren't  such  a  good  little  girl  she  would 
be  whining  all  the  time.  You  really  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it ;  I  would  give  anything  for  somebody  to 
play  with  Naomi.  I  had  set  my  heart  upon  there  be 
ing  a  little  girl  about  her  age." 

And  she  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  The  colonel 
laughed,  and  I,  agitated  as  I  was,  also  laughed  a  little, 
and  then  Mrs.  Emlyn  began  to  see  the  absurdity  of  the 
matter,  and  laughed  too ;  a  very  pleasant,  musical  laugh. 

"  You  don't  suit  at  all,"  she  said.  "  You  are  too 
young  for  me  and  the  colonel,  and  too  old  for  Naomi 
and  Ned  ;  and  the  children  are  complete  misfits." 

This  made  things  a  little  easier.  •  The  colonel  got 
up  and  walked  around  the  room  and  examined  the  wall 
paper  and  ceiling  critically. 

"  It  isn't  so  damp  as  one  would  think,"  he  said,  look- 


38  MISFITS. 

ing  around  and  drawing  a  deep  breath,  as  if  critically  to 
test  the  atmosphere. 

"We  don't  think  it  damp  at  all.  I  have  a  little 
fire  lighted  every  evening  in  the  Franklin.  I  am  so 
glad  there  is  a  Franklin." 

"  Ah,  you  like  it  ? "  he  said.  "  I  had  the  chimney 
opened,  and  that  stove  brought  down  from  the  attic ; 
the  old  people  who  owned  the  house  had  stuffed  up 
the  chimney,  and  put  in  an  air-tight." 

"  And  isn't  that  little  corner  cupboard  in  the  dining- 
room  nice  ? "  I  said.  "  Don't  you  want  to  come  and 
look  at  the  dining-room  ?  " 

So  we  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  I  showed  them 
the  cupboard  and  the  little,  long,  narrow  closet  by  the 
walled-up  fireplace,  and  all  the  improvements  that  I 
had  made  in  the  arrangement  of  things.  I  am  afraid 
the  dining-room,  so  called,  was  a  dismal  old  hole,  but  I 
liked  it  very  much,  and  said  so. 

"  Ah,"  cried  Mrs.  Emlyn,  shrugging  her  shoulders, 
"I  don't  want  any  old  houses  to  live  in.  I  should 
smother  in  this  room.  Why  don't  you  take  the  sashes 
of  the  windows  out  ?  They  don't  open  more  than  five 
inches.  If  it  weren't  for  being  afraid  of  the  rain  I 
should  take  the  sashes  out." 

She  was  much  interested  in  everything,  but  she 
kept  outside  the  door  and  did  not  do  more  than  look  in. 

"  You  need  some  more  china,"  said  the  colonel. 
"Penelope,  can't  we  spare  some  of  that  old  blue, 
like  this  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  china.  Ask 
Rachel,  she  can  tell  you.  I  do  not  think,  myself,  there 
is  any  more  than  we  can  use." 

While  I  was  protesting,  frightened,  that  I  didn't 


MISFITS.  39 

need  any  more  china,  she  explained  herself  with  gestures. 
"  You  know  there  isn't  any  use  in  promising  what  we 
haven't  got.  It  is  just  like  a  man  to  make  promises. 
My  own  impression  is  we  are  rather  short  of  blue,  but 
if  we're  not,  there's  no  objection  to  your  having  what 
you  want.  Only  there's  no  use  in  making  promises."  , 

The  colonel  didn't  seem  to  mind  at  all,  and  said, 
"  "We'll  see,"  and  then  fell  to  promising  me  some  more 
piazza  chairs,  when  we  walked  out  there ;  and  Mrs. 
Emlyn  said  there  was  a  hammock  that  was  not  being 
used,  if  I  cared  for  having  it.  She  did  not  seem  to  be 
exactly  consistent  about  promising,  for  she  pledged  her 
self  to  send  me,  besides  the  hammock,  an  extra  mattress 
and  two  tables. 

"  You  might  as  well  have  them,"  she  said.  "  They're 
doing  nobody  any  good,  and  lumbering  up  the  attic." 

That  took  off  the  load  of  the  obligation,  certainly. 
The  colonel  walked  about,  quite  as  if  it  were  his  house, 
which  seemed  odd  to  me.  He  was  a  short,  rather  thin 
man,  with  a  prominent  nose,  kind  blue  eyes,  bushy  eye 
brows,  a  high  forehead,  and  grizzled  hair  that  curled 
yet.  One  feels  as  if  grizzled  hair  would  have  forgotten 
to  curl,  particularly  when  it  is  thin  on  the  top.  He  had 
an  alert  manner,  but  in  some  way  gave  you  the  idea  of 
philosophic  quiet.  He  dressed  with  scrupulous  neat 
ness,  but  in  rather  old  style.  "When  they  went  away  I 
accompanied  them  to  the  gate,  and  felt  as  if  we  were 
old  friends.  The  children,  not  perceiving  the  august 
visitors,  came  running  around  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Ah  !"  Mrs.  Emlyn  said,  looking  at  them,  "  these 
are  the  children  ?  They  are  very  pretty,  the  eldest  one 
particularly.  I  am  sorry  that  they're  not  old  enough 
for  Naomi." 


40  MISFITS. 

But  the  colonel  took  them  up  and  talked  to  them, 
and  seemed  to  like  them.  When  they  got  in  the  car 
riage  Mrs.  Emlyn  leaned  out  and  said,  "  We'll  send  you 
the  things  when  the  man  can  be  spared  to  bring  them. 
And  you  must  come  and  see  us  if  you  aren't  the  right 
age,  any  of  you." 

And  then  she  laughed  again,  and  they  drove  away. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

ON  THE  SANDS. 

"  Upon  the  wings  of  wild  sea-birds, 
My  dark  thoughts  would  I  lay, 
And  let  them  bear  them  out  to  sea 
In  the  tempest  far  away." 

Paler. 

AD  AY  or  two  after  that  I  went  down  to  the  beach, 
with  Sophia  and  the  children,  for  the  whole 
afternoon.  Sophia  took  the  children  and  sat  behind  the 
bank,  and  turned  her  back  to  the  ocean,  which  she 
despised,  and  sewed.  The  children  naturally  did  not 
stay  with  her,  but  wandered  over  to  where  I  sat,  close 
by  the  waves,  with  a  great  gray  blanket  spread  out  on 
the  sand,  enveloped  in  shawls.  It  was  the  first  warm 
day  of  the  season,  but  the  wind  was  strong,  and  cool 
enough  to  make  all  the  shawls  acceptable,  sitting  still. 

"  Sitting  still,  and  doing  nothing,"  I  knew  that  was 
what  Sophia  was  saying  to  herself  testily  as  she  pricked 
her  fingers  and  looked  over  the  bank  at  me.  That  was 
always  what  I  seemed  to  be  doing.  Considering  that  the 
children's  summer  clothes  were  not  even  yet  cut  out, 
perhaps  it  was  rather  shiftless.  But  I  was  not  thinking 
about  the  children's  summer  clothes,  nor  yet  their 
winter  ones.  What  was  I  thinking  of  as  I  sat  there 
hour  by  hour,  while  the  great  waves  broke  at  my  feet, 
sucking  the  sand  back  in  their  retreat,  and  then  spread- 

[41] 


42  ON      THE      SANDS. 

ing  it  smooth  again  before  me,  while  the  little  bubbles 
burst  up  through  it,  and  the  sand  fleas  scampered  across 
it  ?  I  watched  the  blue  horizon,  across  which,  at  far 
intervals,  a  white  sail  drifted.  I  gazed  up  and  down 
the  long  stretch  of  beach,  lonely  and  bare,  and  noted,  at 
either  point,  where  my  vision  ended,  the  pillar  of  cloud 
that  the  spray  made  against  the  far  sky.  I  don't  think 
a  sand-piper  ran  along  the  sand  that  I  did  not  notice, 
nor  that  a  gull  swept  above  the  blue  tide  that  I  did  not 
follow  out  of  sight,  nor  that  a  .wave  broke  at  my  feet 
that  I  did  not  curiously  scan.  I  did  not  think  about 
the  past ;  I  did  not  speculate  upon  the  future ;  I  had 
no  great  thoughts  such  as  the  sea  seems  to  give  to  others ; 
I  did  not  want  any  one  to  read  or  talk  to  me  ;  I  did  not 
want  to  read  or  talk  myself ;  I  liked  to  see  the  children 
playing  a  little  way  from  me,  but  it  annoyed  me  to  have 
them  come  and  prattle  by  me,  and  make  demands  upon 
my  attention.  When  a  great  wave,  green  and  crystal, 
came  thundering  in  from  sea,  and  burst  upon  the  beach, 
I  had  no  greater  thoughts  than  speculation  whether  the 
next  incoming  one  would  be  as  high  and  would  rush  up 
as  far  upon  the  sand.  I  made  a  pillow  for  myself  of  a 
shawl ;  I  drew  another  over  me ;  it  was  delicious  and  the 
sun  shone  warm  ;  I  lay  content  and  idle  while  the  half 
hours  lapsed  away.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  exactly 
right  to  be  so  vacant  and  indolent,  but  it  seemed  just 
the  medicine  for  my  sick  and  thought-sore  mind. 

The  afternoon  wore  away;  the  children  were  still  busy 
at  a  great  hole  which  they  had  spent  two  hours  in  mak 
ing  broad  and  deep,  when  I  idly  saw  them  reinforced 
by  a  third  child — -a  tall,  slight,  girl  of  twelve,  perhaps, 
with  a  great  profusion  of  yellowish-brown  hair  upon 


ON      THE      SANDS.  43 

her  shoulders,  and  a  sun-burned,  pretty  face,  blue  eyes, 
and  a  bang  that  reached  nearly  to  her  eye-brows. 

"  This  is  the  melancholy  Naomi,"  I  thought,  but  a 
great  wave  rolled  in  that  moment,  and  I  returned  my 
gaze  to  it,  and  wasted  no  more  thought  upon  her.  By  and 
by  the  children's  voices  at  my  elbow  forced  me  to 
abandon  a  sea-gull  to  its  fate,  and  look  up.  Naomi  stood 
shyly  before  me,  with  a  child  in  each  hand,  her  face 
radiant  with  happiness. 

"  Mayn't  they  go  home  with  me  ?"  she  said  ;  "  it  isn't 
far ;  they  want  to  see  my  rabbits." 

"  Ask  Sophia  if  there's  time,"  I  said,  smiling  up  in 
her  pretty  face. 

They  ran  over  to  Sophia,  Naomi  carrying  Baby  part 
of  the  way.  Sophia  evidently  took  the  opposition,  for 
Naomi  and  Maidy  both  looked  extinguished,  and  Baby 
was  crying  and  stamping  with  her  little  foot,  and  pull 
ing  at  Naomi's  hand,  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  which 
rose  behind  the  sand-hills,  not  quarter  of  a  mile  from  us 
along  the  beach.  At  first  I  thought  Sophia  very  cruel, 
but  then  changed  my  mind,  and  reflected  how  far  the 
afternoon  had  waned.  Certainly  we  ought  even  now 
to  be  getting  ready  for  the  march.  But  Sophia  should 
settle  the  matter  ;  she  didn't  mind  breaking  their  hearts 
as  much  as  I  did,  and  I  looked  away  across  the  opal- 
tinted  sky  and  sea,  and  lost  myself  again  in  revery. 

Not  for  many  minutes — a  whoop,  a  shout,  I  don't 
know  what,  sounded  from  behind  the  sand-hills,  and 
looking  back  in  the  direction  whence  it  came,  I  saw 
the  young  man,  whom  I  had  come  to  recognize  as 
the  tutor,  emerge  from  behind  them,  waving  his  hand 
to  Naomi,  and  trying  to  attract  her  attention.  The 
beach  was  very  wide,  and  I  was  down  at  the  water's 


44  ON      THE      SANDS. 

edge.  I  pushed  the  shawls  back,  and  listlessly  sat  watch 
ing  them  all ;  the  jerks  of  Sophia's  head,  the  stamps  of 
Baby's  foot,  the  faces  of  the  disappointed  children,  the 
gestures  of  the  new-comer,  who  could  not  get  them  to 
see  him.  He  was  dressed  as  when  I  had  first  seen  him ; 
now  he  carried  a  gun,  and  a  game-bag  slung  over  his 
shoulder.  At  last  he  succeeded  in  catching  Naomi's 
ear,  as  he  approached  her  along  the  top  of  the  sand-hill. 
She  dropped  the  children's  hands  and  flew  towards  him. 
"What  he  had  to  say  to  her  pleased  her  very  much,  for 
her  face  brightened,  and  she  gave  a  gesture  of  delight. 
But  then  her  eye  falling  on  the  children,  she  looked 
disappointed  again  and  pointed  to  them.  He  made  a 
suggestion  ;  she  pointed  to  Sophia,  and  shook  her  head. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders :  then  they  both  looked  to 
wards  me,  and  after  a  consultation,  she  sprang  down  the 
bank  and  came  running  towards  me. 

Meanwhile  the  young  man  threw  himself  down  on 
the  beach  grass  and  took  out  the  charge  of  his  gun,  and 
busied  himself  about  something  in  the  bag  at  his  side. 
Naomi  breathlessly  said,  as  she  stood  before  me  : 

"  Oh,  please  can't  we  take  the  children  home  in  the 
cart  ?  Mr.  Macnally  has  just  come  for  me  to  go  to  the 
village,  and  he  says  they  can  go  too,  if  you'll  let  them. 
And  we'll  take  good  care  of  them,  and  we'll  leave  them 
at  your  house  when  we  come  back.  Please  let  them 
go ;  I'll  hold  Baby,  myself,  so  she  sha'n't  joggle  out, 
and  Maidy  shall  sit  on  Mr.  Macnally's  lap — Ruby  is 
very  gentle,  and  Mr.  Macnally  is  such  a  careful  driver. 
Please? 

It  certainly  was  a  great  deal  the  easiest  way  of  get 
ting  them  home,  and  I  consented.  Sophia  wouldn't 
like  it,  but  neither  would  she  like  carrying  Baby  all  the 


ON    THE     SANDS.  45 

half  mile,  home.  It  was  only  a  question  of  degrees  of 
disapprobation,  and  it  seemed  for  once  as  if  the  chil 
dren  might  have  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  and  do  as 
they  asked.  I  only  hoped  they'd  let  me  alone  and 
wouldn't  bother  me  any  more  about  it.  By  the  ar 
rangement,  I  should  get  a  half  hour  more  by  the  waves, 
so  I  pulled  the  shawls  about  me,  and  lay  down  a  little 
more  on  my  elbow. 

But  more  bother  was  to  come.  Sophia  came  labor 
iously  across  the  heavy  sand  to  me,  to  utter  her  protest ; 
the  children  looked  after  her  in  keen  suspense,  the 
young  man  began  to  take  an  interest. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she 
could  speak,  for  panting,  "  that  you  told  that  strange 
girl  that  the  children  could  go  home  in  the  cart  with 
her  and  that — that — man,  there  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  Yes,  I  told  her  they  could." 

"  I  suppose  you  want  them  killed  ?  I  should  as  soon 
think  of  turning  them  adrift  in  a  sail  boat.  That — man 
always  drives  as  if  he  was  pursued,  and  the  cart's  noth 
ing  but  a  death-trap.  I  won't  take  any  responsibility 
about  it." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  ask  you  to.  Nothing  will  happen  to 
them,  I'm  sure  ;  but  if  anything  does,  I  won't  blame 
you.  I've  told  her  they  might  go — I  can't  take  back 
my  word.  One  must  be  civil  to  one's  landlord,  you 
know." 

"  I  know,"  returned  Sophia,  with  a  sort  of  hiss,  set 
ting  her  lips  very  tight,  and  turning  away.  I  only 
feared  there  would  be  another  reference  to  me,  there 
was  so  prolonged  a  conversation,  but  at  last  I  saw  them 
go  away,  towards  the  house,  Baby  in  Mr.  Macnally's 
arms,  and  Naomi  and  Maidy  close  at  his  heels.  They 


46  ON    THE    SANDS. 

were  all  gazing  at  him  with  intense  approbation.  He  was 
tossing  Baby  over  his  head,  the  last  I  saw  of  them,  as 
they  disappeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  sand-hills. 
Sophia  gathered  up  her  work  and  went  her  way,  with 
out  a  word,  leaving  me  to  get  the  shawls  home  as  I 
could. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

UNCONVENTIONAL  FOR  A  FIEST  CALL.  ' 

"  His  limbs  were  well  set,  an'  his  body  was  light, 
An'  the  keen-fanged  hound  had  not  teeth  half  so  white; 
But  his  face  was  as  pale  as  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  his  cheek  never  warmed  with  the  blush  of  the  red; 
An'  for  all  that  he  wasn't  an  ugly  young  bye, 
For  the  divil  himself  couldn't  blaze  with  his  eye, 
So  droll  and  so  wicked,  so  dark  and  so  bright, 
Like  a  fire-flash,  that  crosses  the  depth  of  the  night  1" 

Samuel  Loner. 

FROM  that  day,  Naomi  spent  almost  as  much  of  her 
time  at  the  cottage  as  at  Happy-go-lucky ;  her  aunt 
must  have  been  gratified  at  the  kindness  with  which  she 
took  to  the  little  misfits.'  She  put  Baby  to  sleep,  she 
taught  Maidy  her  letters,  she  went  to  house-keeping 
with  them  both,  out  in  the  lilac -bush ;  they  had  tea  in 
the  barn,  on  the  balcony,  under  the  box-tree,  every 
where,  in  fact,  that  tea  could  be  taken.  She  went 
home,  by  strict  orders,  to  the  superior  njeal  of  dinner, 
and  naturally  had  her  breakfast  before  she  came  to  us, 
but  tea  in  some  form  and  on  some  part  of  the  premises, 
she  always  took  at  the  cottage.  She  was  a  delightful 
little  mother,  and  so  perfectly  happy  in  her  position 
that  even  Sophia  was  reconciled  to  the  intrusion,  par 
ticularly  as  it  gave  her  so  much  more  time  for  those 
terrible  summer  clothes.  She  £ould  be  entirely  trusted 

[47] 


48  UNCONVENTIONAL    FOR    A    FIRST    CALL. 

with  the  children,  out-Sophiaing  Sophia  in  regard  to 
damp  grass,  and  being  a  perfect  martinet  in  the  matter 
of  manners. 

We  were  favored  tenants.  All  the  promised  things 
were  sent,  and  a  great  many  more.  The  carriage 
stopped  nearly  every  day  to  bring  some  vegetables 
from  our  landlord's  early  garden,  or  some  fish  or  crabs 
from  the  bay,  or  some  addition  to  our  rather  slender 
kitchen  furniture.  Once  or  twice  I  had  gone  down  to 
the  gate  and  received  the  gifts  out  of  the  carriage  win 
dow  from  inadame  herself.  The  colonel  had  come  in 
twice  about  the  kitchen  chimney,  and  altogether  we 
felt  that  we  were  very  comfortably  placed.  Our  letters 
were  brought  from  the  mail  every  night  by  some  one 
from  Happy-go-lucky :  we  seemed  quite  taken  under 
its  wing.  When  it  stormed,  the  man  from  Happy-go- 
lucky  stopped  to  take  our  orders  to  the  grocer :  when 
we  were  "  out "  of  anything  unexpectedly,  we  had  no 
hesitation  in  hailing  him  as  he  passed  to  the  village, 
and  making  him  our  messenger.  I  had  not  yet  paid 
my  visit  there ;  two  rainy  days  and  a  headache  had 
prevented. 

A  third  rainy  day  was  just  ending ;  the  children 
had  been  reinforced  by  Naomi,  who  had  come  across 
the  fields,  all  water-proofed  and  India-rubbered.  They 
had  had  their-tea,  in  a  spirit  of  adventure,  in  the  gar 
ret.  I  had  had  mine  alone,  in  the  little  dining-room  ;  the 
wood  fire  in  the  parlor  was  blazing,  and  the  lamp  was 
lighted ;  I  was  sitting  beside  it  with  a  nice  book.  The 
children  were  below  with  Sophia  in  the  kitchen,  when 
J  heard  a  step  on  the  balcony  outside,  and  then  a  knock 
at  the  door.  I  knew  it  was  the  mail,  and  hurried  to 
open  it.  Mr.  Macnally  stcod  there,  very  dripping,  with 


UNCONVENTIONAL    FOR    A    FIKST    CALL.  49 

a  package  of  letters  and  papers  in  his  hand,  which  he 
was  assorting. 

"  I  bog  your  pardon,"  he  said,  looking  up  and  see 
ing  me.  He  tried  to  take  off  his  cap,  but  the  wind  did 
it  for  him,  and  also  distributed  some  of  the  letters  on 
the  floor,  as  he  stooped  forward  to  catch  the  light,  and 
a  little  stream  of  water  ran  across  from  the  door  to  the 
oil-cloth  on  the  hall.  The  gale  put  out  the  parlor  lamp 
at  the  same  moment. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  he  said ;  "  I  think  those  are  for  you, 
but  I  can't  be  sure.  If  you'll  let  me,  I'll  look  at  them 
by  the  firelight." 

So  he  shut  the  door  against  the  blast,  and,  coming 
into  the  parlor,  knelt  down  and  examined  the  letters  by 
the  blaze  from  the  fire,  while  I  hurried  to  re-light  the 
lamp.  Just  as  this  was  accomplished,  and  he  was  handing 
me  the  letters  that  belonged  to  me,  the  children  rushed 
up  stairs  and  into  the  room,  headed  by  Naomi. 

"  Mr.  Macnally,"  she  cried,  "  I  thought  it  was  you. 
Aunt  Penelope  told  me  that  I  must  go  home  with  you, 
or  whoever  brought  the  letters.  Can't  you  wait  a 
little  while,  just  a  little  while  ?  Please,  can't  he  ?  So 
phia  is  going  to  let  us  pop  some  corn ;  we've  got  it  all 
ready.  The  children  want  to  see  it  so — they  haven't 
ever  seen  anybody  pop  corn — they'll  be  so  disappointed. 
Won't  you  ?  Don't  you  think  he  might  ?" 

The  little  ones  added  their  clamor ;  in  the  midst  of  a 
rather  embarrassed  parley  which  they  took  for  an  assent, 
they,  with  gestures  of  delight,  flew  down-stairs  and  in 
a  moment  returned  with  the  corn  and  with  a  shovel. 

"  It's  to  be  done  here,  is  it  ?"  said  the  tutor,  putting 
his  ulster  in  the  hall.  "  That  looks  as  if  you  wanted  me 

3 


50  UNCONVENTIONAL    FOR    A    FIRST    CALL. 

to  help  you.  But  I  thought  people  popped  corn  in  the 
kitchen." 

"  Only  when  they  can't  get  a  parlor  to  pop  it  in," 
cried  Naomi,  going  down  on  her  knees  by  the  tire. 
"  Besides,"  lowering  her  voice,  "  the  kitchen's  much 
more  particular  than  the  parlor  here." 

That  was  soon  evident.  The  parlor  wasn't  particular. 
The  ashes  were  dragged  over  the  hearth,  up  to  the  very 
verge  of  the  rug.  The  half -burned  sticks  broke  in  two 
and  rolled  to  the  sides  of  the  Franklin,  the  smoke 
puffed  into  our  faces,  the  sparks  scintillated  around 
our  hands.  The  coals,  which  had  been  piled  into  a  heap 
in  the  center,  grew  gray,  and  fresh  pine  and  more  wood 
had  to  be  put  on.  It  was  surprising  how  much  had  to 
be  done  to  get  things  in  condition  to  begin.  I  had  to 
find  paper,  Naomi  had  to  go  down-stairs  for  kindling 
wood.  We  all  crowded  around  the  fireplace,  and  as  the 
plot  thickened,  went  down  on  our  knees  upon  the  rug.  I 
held  Baby  in  my  lap,  and  tried  to  keep  her  from  getting 
into  the  tire.  Naomi  held  the  shovel  over  the  coals,  and 
Mr.  Macnally  put  in  the  corn  and  stirred  it.  Maidy 
crowded  in  wherever  there  was  least  room,  and  looked 
over  the  lowest  shoulder.  When  at  last  the  right  heat 
was  obtained,  and  the  first  grain  of  corn  yielded  to  the 
pressure,  and  burst  suddenly  into  a  pretfy  white  blos 
som,  Maidy  gave  a  shriek  of  delight,  as  if  at  a  feat  of 
jugglery.  Mr.  Macnally  laughed,  and,  pulling  her  into 
the  circle,  took  her  before  him  on  his  knee,  and  put  the 
stick  into  her  hand  with  which  he  had  been  stirring  the 
corn. 

"  You  poor  little  Cockney,"  he  said,  "  aren't  you  glad 
you've  come  to  the  land  where  the  pop-corn  grows  ?" 

Whenever  a  grain  popped,both  the  children  shrieked, 


UNCONVENTIONAL    FOE    A    FIRST    CALL.  51 

and  Naomi,  who  was  a  blase  popper,  laughed  with,  pat 
ronizing  freedom.  The  tutor  held  Maidy  by  brute 
force,  or  she  would  have  thrown  herself  into  the  coals 
in  her  excitement,  and  it  was  only  by  a  firm  hold  that  I 
kept  Baby  from  grovelling  in  the  ashes.  By  the  time 
the  last  grain  had  blown  into  whiteness,  all  the  faces  of 
the  party  were  scorched,  and  everybody's  hands  were 
grimy  from  the  ashes. 

"  There,  Maidy,"  I  said,  "that's  the  last  one;  now 
yon  must  really  get  further  from  the  fire,"  for  Maidy, 
being  the  stirrer,  was  of  course  in  the  forefront. 

No,  Maidy  didn't  want  to  get  back ;  she  wanted 
more,  and  she  began  to  cry,  and  say  Naomi  must  go 
flown  to  the  kitchen  and  get  more  corn. 

"  "Why,"  said  the  tutor,  withdrawing  her  a  little 
from  the  heat,  "  now's  the  time  to  eat  the  corn.  Naomi 
will  get  a  plate." 

"  Mr.  Macnally,  why  did  you  tell  her  that  ?  Sophia 
never  would  consent.  Popped  corn  is  highly  in-di-gest- 
ible,"  cried  Naomi,  with  importance.  "  You  have  spoiled 
it  all." 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said.  "  At  the  risk  of  being 
disingenuous,  Maidy,  then  I  must  tell  you  it  is  highly 
in-di-gestible,  and  we  never  do  anything  with  it  but 
play  it  is  a  snow-storm.  Shall  we  play  it  is  a  snow 
storm  2" 

Maidy  was  not  appeased,  only  perplexed  by  the  hard 
words  ;  at  this  moment  Sophia  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
I  began  to  feel  the  ignominy  of  being  on  the  floor,  with 
three  untidy  children  and  a  strange  man.  I  don't  know 
why  Sophia's  presence  should  have  roused  these  feelings, 
but  it  did ;  I  was  not  accountable  to  Sophia.  I  got 
upon  my  feet  in  some  way,  and  put  Baby  on  hers.  Mr. 


52  UNCONVENTIONAL    FOE    A    FIRST    CALL. 

Macnally  did  the  same,  and  as  his  back  was  towards 
Sophia  he  made  a  funny  gesture  of  straightening  a  cravat 
which  did  not  exist,  and  smoothing  down  his  hair,  of 
which  there  was  a  growth  of  about  an  eighth  of  an  inch. 
Undoubtedly  this  was  meant  for  Naomi's  amusement, 
for  she  seemed  to  understand  him,  and  giggled. 

Sophia  disdained  to  look  at  any  of  us.  With  her 
eyes  averted,  she  told  me  she  had  come  to  take  the 
children  to  bed.  Maidy  began  to  cry  violently  and 
cling  to  Mr.  Macnally,  in  whose  arms  she  still  was. 
Baby  struck  out  at  her,  and  said  "go  'way,  bad  thing," 
and  held  tightly  the  skirt  of  my  dress. 

"  Isn't  it  pretty  early  ? "  I  said,  hesitatingly.  "  Can't 
you  let  them  stay  a  little  longer  ?" 

I  caught  an  amused  smile  flit  over  the  stranger's 
mouth ;  his  eyes  were  discreetly  on  the  ground,  and  I 
could  not  see  their  sparkle.  The  sight  of  the  smile 
emboldened  me  to  say,  "  They  can  stay  up  for  twenty 
minutes  more,  if  you'll  come  back  for  them  then." 

Sophia  went  away  without  a  word.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  Naomi  and  Mr.  Macnally  to  look  relieved  and 
merry ;  it  was  I  who  would  have  to  take  it  to-morrow. 

"Now  for  the  snow-storm,"  cried  Maidy's  friend, 
setting  her  upon  his  shoulder,  and  giving  her  a  handful 
of  the  corn.  Maidy  showered  it  down  with  great  satis 
faction  over  every  body,  while  Naomi  gathered  some  of 
it  up  industriously  for  repetitions  of  the  storm.  By 
and  by  the  supply  grew  short,  so  much  of  it  was  lobt 
among  the  chairs  and  tables ;  Maidy  looked  dissatisfied. 

"  These  second-hand  showers,  Maidy,  are  apt  to  run 
short.  It's  the  worst  of  them.  Can't  we  do  something 
else  to  make  ourselves  happy  ? " 

And  her  cavalier  was  proceeding  very  gently  to  take 


UNCONVENTIONAL    FOR    A    FIRST    CALL.  53 

her  down  from  his  shoulder,  when  she  began  to  cry, 
liking  her  position. 

"  For  shame ! "  cried  Naomi,  "  when  Mr.  Macnally 
has  been  so  good  to  you ! " 

"  These  second-hand  mothers  are  hard  upon  little 
girls,  ar'n't  they  ? "  he  said,  kissing  the  little  hand  that 
clung  about  his  neck,  and  not  offering  to  take  her  down. 
Naomi  blushed. 

"  Sophia  always  tells  me  to  make  her  mind.  She 
wouldn't  trust  her  to  me  if  I  didn't." 

Thereupon  Baby,  seeing  how  much  was  to  be  got 
by  crying,  cried,  and  demanded  to  be  taken  up  upon 
the  other  shoulder. 

"  You  see,"  exclaimed  Naomi,  "  somebody  must  be 
firm." 

The  tutor  and  I  both  laughed ;  I  evidently  didn't 
count  for  much  in  my  household ;  but  though  I 
laughed,  I  did  not  like  it  very  much. 

"  If  your  great-grandmother  Naomi  will  permit,"  he 
said,  with  a  bow  in  the  direction  of  that  young  person,  "  I 
shall  be  very  happy  to  have  you  on  the  other  shoulder." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  cried  Naomi,  forgetting  her  wrongs  in  a 
new  thought.  "  And  dance  an  Irish  jig  with  them,  as 
you  did  that  day  on  the  beach !  Please,  Mr.  Macnally, 
it  would  be  so  jolly.  Please,  mayn't  he  ?  He  won't 
make  much  noise." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  Sophia  ?"  I  said.  She  was 
flying  off,  taking  me  seriously,  when  I  called  her  back. 
"  It  isn't  necessary  to  ask  Sophia  this  time,"  I  said. 

"Then  he  may?     Oh,  what  fun.     Mr.  Macnally,' 
you  will,  won't  you  ?" 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,"  he  said,  rather 
shortly. 


54  UNCONVENTIONAL    FOK    A    FIRST    CALL. 

"But  the  Baby?"  said  Naomi,  snubbed.  "Won't 
you  let  her  have  a  ride  on  your  shoulder,  anyhow  ?" 

Mr.  Macnally  knelt  down  like  a  camel,  while  I  put 
Baby  on  his  other  shoulder.  He  held  each  one  by  the 
hand,  and  rose  up,  balancing  them  carefully.  They 
screamed  with  delight  while  he  gave  them  a  ride 
through  the  circuit  of  our  apartments.  There  was  a 
great  row  while  they  were  out  in  the  dining-room ;  I 
didn't  know  but  that  the  Irish  jig  was  beginning,  but 
they  were  all  subdued  and  respectable  when  they  reap 
peared  in  the  doorway  of  the  parlor.  To  get  through 
this  door,  it  was  necessary  for  the  camel  to  go  down  on 
his  knees  again,  which  he  did  with  great  ease.  He 
had  the  sort  of  figure  that  gave  you  the  impression  it 
would  be  no  inconvenience  to  him  to  roll  himself  up 
like  an  India-rubber  ball  and  be  shot  off  the  moon; 
he  would  surely  land  on  his  feet  in  South  Berwick  if 
he  meant  to  appear  there. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  after  another  tour  of  the  disor 
dered  little  parlor,  going  down  on  one  knee  before 
Naomi,  "  if  your  great-grandmother  will  have  the  good 
ness  to  bear  a  hand — " 

"  I  don't  think  that's  fair,"  muttered  Naomi,  a  little 
nettled.  "  I've  had  the  care  of  them  a  great  deal — 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  kissing  one  little  scorched  face 
and  then  another,  as  he  set  them  down,  "  and  now  I 
think,  Naomi,  if  you'll  get  your  cloak  and  hat  we  will 
say  good-night." 

Naomi,  and  the  children  after  her,  ran  down-stairs 
to  the  kitchen,  which  seemed  to  have  served  for  Naomi's 
dressing-room,  and  where,  no  doubt,  the  judicious  So 
phia  had  put  her  wet  water-proof  before  the  fire  when 
she  first  came  in. 


UNCONVENTIONAL    FOR    A    FIRST    CALL.  55 

The  stranger  and  I  began  to  feel  a  little  awkwardness, 
after  the  children  went  away.  We  had  really  not  ad 
dressed  each  other  directly,  except  in  the  matter  of  the 
letters,  all  the  time  he  had  been  here.  He  had  a  down- 
looking,  rather  shy  way  when  it  came  to  talking  to  me, 
that  seemed  like  a  very  young  man.  And  yet,  he  was 
not  a  very  young  man,  unless  twenty-six  or  twenty- 
eight  is  very  young ;  one  felt  sure  he  was  as  much  as 
that.  His  lithe,  slight  figure,  in  the  inevitable  blue 
flannel  clothes,  made  him  look  very  boyish,  but  his  face, 
when  you  took  that  into  account,  gave  a  different  esti 
mate.  His  cheeks  were  flushed  now  with  the  flre  and 
with  the  romp ;  his  eyes  were  keen  and  bright,  when 
you  could  get  a  gleam  from  them  ;  his  mouth  was  rest 
less  with  mirth  that  it  seemed  an  effort  to  subdue,  and 
yet  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was  talking  to  a  man  who  was 
at  least  my  equal  in  age,  my  senior  in  experience  of 
life. 

I  attempted  some  commonplace,  as  a  woman  is  sure 
to  do,  first,  while  he  stood  by  the  table,  looking  down, 
attempting  nothing.  It  was  about  the  storm,  no  doubt, 
and  when  it  was  answered,  there  was  another  pause. 
The  disordered  room  seemed  to  strike  him. 

"  It  has  bec»a  rather  unconventional  for  a  first  call," 
he  said,  not  looking  up,  but  a  smile  spoiling  the 
decorum  of  his  face.  "  Like  a  first  call  from  a  hurri 
cane,"  he  added,  moving  a  chair  back  against  the  win 
dow,  and  setting  straight  a  little  table  that  had  been 
whirled  out  of  its  corner  by  Naomi. 

"  I  don't  mind,"  I  said.  "  It  keeps  Sophia  in  good 
humor  to  have  plenty  of  things  to  put  in  order.  It's 
the  best  thing  that  can  happen." 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,  then,"  he  said  fervently,  put- 


56  UNCONVENTIONAL    FOR    A    FIRST    CALL. 

ting  the  chair  and  table  back  to  a  fraction  of  the  same 
angle  in  which  they  had  been  standing.  He  had  a 
delightful  little  accent,  English  or  Irish,  or  perhaps 
Canadian ;  I  quite  liked  to  hear  him  speak,  and 
found  myself  speculating  as  to  whether  I  couldn't 
speak  that  way  if  I  tried.  Then  Naomi  and  the 
children  came  tumbling  into  the  room  again,  and 
waterproofs  and  umbrellas  and  overshoes  were  all 
that  came  into  discussion.  As  the  tutor  knelt  down  to 
light  his  lantern  at  the  fire,  Maidy  came  up  and  pressed 
close  to  his  side  and  slipped  her  little  hand  under  his  arm, 
and  watched  him  silently.  It  was  such  an  astonishing 
action  for  the  shy  child.  When  he  went  away,  she 
followed  him  to  the  door  and  held  up  her  face  to  be 
kissed,  though  the  wind  nearly  swept  her  back  into  the 
room.  Then  she  ran  to  the  window  and  pressed  her 
face  against  the  pane,  and  watched  the  little  spark  as 
it  wavered  along  through  the  darkness,  in,  the  direction 
of  Happy-go-lucky's  hospitable  lights. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TEA,    TREATED    UNCOlSrVElSrTION'ALLT. 

"  'Twas  nice,  of  course,  to  hear  from  you 

About  their  wild,  Bohemian  ways; 
One  likes  to  know  how  people  do 
"Who  are  not  in  the  world. — " 

Olrig  Grange. 

T  HAD  meant  to  go  to  pay  my  first  call  at  Happy-go- 
•*•  Lucky,  a  mountain  of  crape ;  even  getting  out  my 
best  dress  and  veil  from  the  damp  little  closet  in  the 
wall  where  they  spent  their  days.  But  it  was  too  incon 
gruous  and  absurd ;  I  could  not  fancy  myself  dragging 
them  through  the  dust  of  the  road  and  the  damp  of 
the  grass,  and  appearing  with  dignity  to  make  a  visit  of 
ceremony  upon  my  landlady.  So  I  gave  the  Shinne- 
cock  my  flannel  dress  to  brush  with  extra  care  for  the 
occasion,  and  taking  Maidy  for  companion,  went  un 
conventionally  across  the  fields  in  the  direction  of  the 
house.  When  we  went  in  at  the  gate  two  or  three 
great  dogs  bounced  out  at  us,  sending  Maidy  into  par 
oxysms  of  fright,  but  as  many  men  came  out  from  stable 
and  garden  and  carriage-house  and  called  them  oif. 

"When  I  got  to  the  steps  of  the  house,  I  was  again 
in  doubt.     Every  stage  of  the  visit  had  been  attended 
with  doubt ;  whether  I  should  come  morning  or  after 
noon,  whether  I  should  wear  crape  or  flannel,  and  now 
3*  [57] 


58  TEA,    TREATED   TOSTCONVENTIONALLT. 

whether  I  should  go  up  the  front  steps  or  the  side 
steps,  or  where. 

For  wide  flights  of  steps  led  to  the  broad  veranda 
on  each  side  of  the  house,  and  I  could  not  distinguish 
'  any  definite  "  front-door."  In  fact,  the  house  seemed 
all  doors  and  windows,  mostly  open  ones.  We  went 
finally  up  the  western  steps,  trusting,  when  there,  to 
light  upon  a  knocker  or  a  bell  or  some  distinguishing 
mark  that  visits  were  in  order.  The  veranda  was  very 
wide,  running  entirely  around  the  house ;  there  was  a 
roof  only  over  certain  portions  of  it,  forming  porches 
on  each  side.  These  were  in  shade  at  some  time 
or  other  of  the  day,  and  were  amply  provided  with 
chairs,  hammocks  and  settees.  At  the  windows  un 
shaded  by  them,  the  sunshine  streamed  into  rooms 
that,  so  near  the  sea,  were  all  the  better  for  it.  The 
western  porch  was  now  flooded  with  the  afternoon 
sun ;  no  one  was  sitting  there ;  if  there  were  a  door 
there,  it  was  not  distinguishable  from  a  window,  and 
was  wide  open.  I  went  rather  uncomfortably  to  the 
rear,  where  the  veranda  was  connected  with  a  platform 
that  led  out  to  the  crest  of  the  sand-hill  overlooking 
the  sea.  Visitors  could  not  reasonably  be  expected  to 
enter  from  the  ocean,  so  I  went  back  and  tried  the 
north,  or,  more  properly,  the  front  side  of  the  house. 
But  here  more  open  casements,  more  disarranged  and 
untenanted  chairs,  and  no  bell,  no  knocker.  The  ver 
anda  was  inclosed  below,  and  formed  the  kitchen,  laun 
dry,  and  servants'  rooms.  Here  I  could  distinguish  the 
servants'  voices,  and  laughter,  and  sounds  of  work. 
How  could  I  make  them  hear  me  ?  I  tried  to  knock  on 
the  floor  with  my  umbrella  ;  it  probably  sounded  like 
the  tap  of  a  woodpecker,  and  elicited  no  reply.  It 


TEA,    TREATED   UNCONVENTIONALLY.  59 

would  be  unpleasant  to  have  to  pin  my  card  to  one  of 
the  posts  of  the  porch,  and  go  away. 

As  I  walked  up  and  down  nervously,  wondering 
what  I  ought  to  do,  Maidy  suddenly  dropped  my 
hand  and  went  towards  the  western  steps.  She  had 
caught  sight  of  somebody  she  liked,  who,  however,  had 
not  as  yet  seen  her.  Mr.  Macnally  came  up  the  steps 
three  at  a  time,  whistling,  and  carrying  a  crab-net  over 
his  shoulder.  He  started  when  he  caught  sight  of 
Maidy,  made  a  gesture  as  if  he  would  scoop  her  up  in 
his  crab-net,  and  then  hurried  to  her  and  stooped  to 
kiss  her.  ' 

" "What's  my  little  lady  doing  here  alone?"  he  said. 
She  took  his  hand  shyly  and  pointed  with  the  other  to 
wards  me,  as  I  came  around  the  angle  of  the  house. 
He  took  off  his  cap  to  me,  which  he  hadn't  done  to 
Maidy,  worse  manners. 

"  I'm  trying  to  find  a  bell  or  a  knocker,  or  a  front 
door." 

"  Have  we  ever  a  front  door,"  he  said.  "  I  never 
thought  of  it  before.  No,  I  don't  believe  we  have. 
We  go  in — '  promiscuous.'  We  don't  have  many  visitors. 
There  are  not  many  to  come,  you  know." 

"  All  the  same,  it's  awkward  for  them  when  they  do. 
It's  the  first  time  I've  been,  and  I  ought  not  to  be  too 
unceremonious." 

"  Certainly,  a  first  call  ought  to  be  conventional :  I 
know  it."  And  he  took  his  cap  off  again  and  stood 
with  it  in  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  and  an 
unspoken  jest  hovering  on  his  lips. 

"  How  can  I  find  oat  if  Mrs.  Emlyn  is  at  home  ? "  I 
said,  nervously,  after  a  pause  of  about  a  minute,  which 
seemed  to  me  much  longer. 


60  TEA,    TREATED   tnSTCONVENTIONALLY. 

"Might  I  take  your  card  to  her?"  he  said,  and,  I 
can't  tell  how,  he  transformed  himself  in  a  moment 
into  the  sleekest  of  Jeemeses,  with  his  cap  tucked  under 
his  arm,  holding  out  an  imaginary  salver  to  take  the 
card.  All  this  time  he  didn't  look  at  me ;  but  the 
expression  of  his  face,  his  attitude,  the  slight  serving- 
man  accent  with  which  he  pronounced  the  words,  were 
a  livery  and  knee-breeches. 

"I  haven't  got  any  card,"  I  said,  almost  too  uncom 
fortable  to  be  amused. 

"  Oh !  then,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  look  of  relief,  re 
suming  his  natural  expression,  "it  isn't  to  be  strictly 
point  device.  Perhaps  you  will  come  in,  this  way, 
through  the  dining-room." 

"VVe  went  in  through  an  open  casement,  and  he  gave 
me  a  seat,  and  went  away  to  find  the  lady  of  the  house. 
It  was  an  immense  room,  running  the  whole  length  of 
the  house.  I  didn't  wonder  Mrs.  Emlyn  could  not 
breathe  in  my  dining-room,  if  she  were  used  to  breathing 
in  this.  It  was  about  forty-five  feet  long,  with  a  width 
of  twenty-two  or  twenty-three.  The  staircase  went  up 
at  one  end,  and  in  the  center  was  a  great  fire-place 
bricked  up  to  the  ceiling,  with  a  fire  even  now  smoulder 
ing  on  the  hearth.  The  furniture  was  heavy  and  old- 
fashioned  ;  one  or  two  nice  pieces  of  tapestry  hung 
against  the  wall,  and  between  the  windows,  on  the 
panels,  were  crossed  some  swords  and  guns,  a  helmet  or 
two,  and  a  few  pieces  of  armor  that  perhaps  wouldn't 
bear  scrutiny,  but  were  quite  effective.  The  floor  was 
bare,  except  a  rug  and  footstool  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
The  mahogany  of  the  table  was  polished  very  bright, 
but  on  it  was  the  debris  of  a  lunch  which  some  belated 
one  had  recently  been  eating.  The  colonel's  pipe-box, 


TEA,    TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY.  61 

a  very  rude  affair,  was  nailed  up  between  the  fire-place 
and  a  tapestry  that  must  have  cost  a  pretty  penny.  The 
tutor  had  set  down  his  crab-net  in  a  corner  as  if  it  were 
the  place  in  which  it  belonged.  There  were  fishing- 
poles  and  creels  and  reels  in  another,  and  under  the 
stairs,  in  full  view,  hung  cloaks  and  shawls  and  coats  of 
all  descriptions,  and  a  perfect  colony  of  hats  and  caps. 
The  windows,  which  were  very  wide,  were  opened  full 
to  the  strong  wind  from  the  sea  and  the  sun  now 
"  sloping  to  his  western  bower."  On  one  side  of  the 
fireplace  was  a  box  for  wood,  on  the  other  a  basket  for 
Naomi's  little  Blenheim,  who  always  slept  there.  A 
table  in  a  corner  was  piled  high  with  school-books ; 
under  it  was  a  croquet  box  with  the  mallets  sticking  out 
from  the  half-closed  lid.  The  silver  on  the  sideboard 
was  shining  beautifully,  and  the  window  panes  were 
crystal  clean,  but  on  the  sideboard  stood  a  dripping  glass 
jar  of  sea-weeds,  and  before  one  of  the  windows  a  great 
tin  pan,  in  which  crabs  and  scallops  and  star-fish  battled 
about,  dismayed  at  their  imprisonment.  A  pool  of 
water,  gradually  widening  on  the  handsome  wood  floor 
was  not  likely  to  improve  its  polish.  It  certainly  was 
not  an  untidy  room,  but  if  one  might  say  so,  a  most 
liberal  one.  All  crafts  and  tastes  seemed  to  have  the 
freedom  of  it,  and  everything  was  tolerated  but  dust 
and  dirt. 

There  had  been  sounds  of  knocking  at  many  doors 
upstairs,  and  presently  Mr.  Macnally  came  down. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  is  nobody  in  the  house.  I 
don't  know  where  Mrs.  Emlyn  and  Naomi  have  gone. 
It  is  possible  that  we  may  find  them  on  the  beach." 

So  while  Maidy  clutched  his  hand,  I  followed  him 
out  upon  the  veranda  and  across  the  platform  to  the 


02  TEA,     TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY. 

sand-hill,  whence  we  could  see  up  and  down  the  beach. 
The  beach  looked  wide  and  lonely,  not  a  human  being 
in  sight.  Maidy  looked  disappointed.  "  I  want  to  see 
Naomi's  rabbits." 

"  Next  time ;  we  must  go  home  now,"  I  said,  feeling 
uncomfortably  that  I  was  making  a  call  upon  the  tutor. 

"  Next  time  sounds  a  great  way  off.  Mayn't  she 
come  with  me  to  see  the  rabbits  ?  I  will  bring  her  back 
to  you  in  a  little  while." 

That  was  not  objectionable ;  so  going  down  on  the 
beach,  to  be  off  the  premises  and  beyond  the  imputation 
of  paying  him  a  visit,  I  sat  down  on  the  sand  and  waited. 
The  afternoon  was  perfect,  the  sky  and  sea  blue,  the 
breeze  fresh,  the  air  sun-dried  and  warm.  I  had  just 
got  soothed  into  a  dreamy  forgetfulness  of  my  recent 
embarrassments,  when  a  great  shout  from  the  sand-hill 
made  me  turn  around ;  Naomi  was  springing  down,  fol 
lowed  by  Maidy,  and  the  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Emlyri  stood 
on  the  top,  waving  to  me. 

"  You're  to  stay  to  tea !"  cried  Naomi,  panting. 
"  Aunt  Penelope  says  you  are,  and  she's  come  out  to 
fetch  you.  Oh,  such  fun !" 

And  she  caught  Maidy  in  her  arms,  and  whirled  her 
round  till  they  both  fell,  exhausted,  on  the  beach.  Mean 
while,  I  got  up,  and  hurried  up  the  sand-hill,  to  meet 
my  host  and  hostess.  They  renewed  the  invitation  to 
tea,  and  Maidy  and  Naomi  danced  a  war-dance  around 
us  till  the  matter  was  settled. 

"  What  will  Sophia  say  ;  you  always  go  to  bed  at 
seven,  and  how  shall  we  get  home  if  it  is  dark  ?" 

"  Oh,  we'll  see  to  that ;  we'll  make  Mr.  Macnally  go, 
or  Ned,  if  he  is  busy.  Come,  Maidy,  come  and  see  the 
rabbits." 


•TEA,  TREATED  UNCONVENTIONALLY.        63 

Then  the  colonel  asked  me  to  walk  around  the  place 
with  him,  and  see  the  water- works,  and  the  garden,  and 
the  stables.  The  hostess  excused  herself,  and  went  on 
the  piazza  to  read,  while  we  went  to  look  at  these  im 
provements.  It  is  always  a  doubtful  pleasure  to  be 
dragged  about  country  places  to  look  at  improvements. 
It  is  only  possession  that  gives  a  charm  to  rams,  and 
wheels,  and  forcing-beds,  and  model  stables.  The 
colonel  was  glad  to  find  a  listener  ;  he  did  not  let  me  off 
from  anything.  He  had  evidently  spent  a  good  deal  of 
money,  which  nobody  would  have  guessed  if  he  hadn't 
told  them.  The  lawn  looked  as  if  it  would  have  been 
the  better  for  a  little  of  the  attention  that  was  given  to 
the  calves  and  colts,  and  a  tithe  from  the  water-works 
ought  to  have  been  exacted  to  make  a  better  gate  and 
fence.  But  those  things  showed,  and  could  take  care  of 
themselves ;  the  things  that  did  not  show  and  were 
practically  useful  were  what  the  colonel  set  his  heart 
on  bringing  to  perfection.  It  was  a  very  amiable  trait 
in  the  colonel's  character.  All  the  same,  I  was  glad 
when  the  tea-bell  rang,  and  we  went  back  to  the  house. 
Not,  however,  without  some  pauses  and  procrastinations 
as  the  water  tank  was  passed.  We  were  so  long  on  the 
way  that  when  we  reached  the  dining-room  the  lady  of 
the  house  was  already  at  the  table,  looking  a  little  severe 
and  pouring  out  the  tea.  It  was  past  seven  o'clock,  but 
the  days  were  at  the  longest ;  I  remember  it  was 

"St.  Barnaby  bright, 
The  longest  day  and  the  shortest  night." 

The  sky  was  brilliant  with  the  sunset,  through  all 
the  west  and  north  windows  of  the  dining-room,  stand 
ing  open.  The  tea-table  looked  very  pretty,  with  nice 


64  TEA,    TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY. 

old  blue  china  and  heavy  silver,  but  it  seemed  to  me  a 
happy  accident,  for  I  never  saw  a  table  less  carefully 
arranged.  The  dishes  seemed  principally  congregated 
about  the  colonel's  and  some  one  else's  plate,  which  I 
later  found  to  be  the  tutor's.  Naomi,  who  had  fol 
lowed  us  in,  reached  across  and  put  a  glass  of  ferns  and 
daisies  as  near  the  middle  of  the  table  as  she  could  get 
it.  Her  hands  were  very  dirty;  her  aunt  guessed, 
rather  than  saw,  that  they  were,  and  told  her  to  go  and 
wash  them  before  she  came  in  to  tea.  Naomi  said 
Maidy's  were  dirty  too,  so  they  made  up  a  party,  and 
went  off  quite  cheerfully  to  wash  them. 

I  had  a  seat  with  my  back  to  the  fire-place,  and  my 
face  toward  the  windows.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  never 
seen  a  room  so  delightful,  nor  windows  so  satisfying. 
One  looked  over  miles  of  green  and  level  country,  dot 
ted  here  and  there  with  farm-houses,  buried  in  thick, 
low  trees  planted  to  keep  off  the  winter  winds.  The 
white  sails  of  a  wind-mill  caught  the  eye ;  or,  in  the 
distance,  the  tall  church  spire  of  a  neighboring  vil 
lage.  Beyond,  against  the  horizon,  rose  a  long  low  line  of 
hills,  purple  in  the  evening  light.  This  was  what  one 
saw  of  earth,  but  of  sky,  where,  ever,  did  one  see  so 
much  ?  To  one  brought  up  among  the  hills,  or  bred  in 
city  streets,  it  was  like  a  revelation.  It  was  an  arch, 
not  a  patch ;  a  firmament,  not  a  strip. 

All  this  while  the  colonel  was  carving  a  chicken 
with  concentrated  interest ;  Mrs.  Emlyn  was  arrang 
ing  her  tea-cups,  and  I  was  between  sky  and  earth, 
now  gazing  at  the  glories  of  the  west,  now  filled 
with  chagrin  that  Naomi  did  not  bring  back  Maidy, 
and  feeling  somehow,  that  the  ignominy  of  the  re- 


TEA,     TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY.  65 

tarded  tea  belonged  to  me.  It  was  not  a  convivial 
thing,  this  sitting  down  three  to  a  table  laid  for  seven. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  about  the  children  not  coming," 
I  said  timidly  to  Mrs.  Emlyn. 

"  Oh,  I  am  used  to  it,"  she  said.  "  They  all  know 
what  they  have  to  expect.  If  they  are  half  an  hour 
late,  they  wait  on  themselves.  I  will  not  keep  servants 
on  their  feet  all  night." 

Presently  the  tutor  came  in,  and  then  the  little 
girls,  and  last,  just  as  the  clock  struck  the  half  hour, 
Ned,  a  handsome,  sunburnt  lad  of  fifteen,  whom  I  had 
not  seen  before.  He  gave  me  a  shy,  pretty  bow  when 
he  was  presented,  and  took  his  seat  between  his  aunt 
and  me.  The  servant  looked  up  at  the  clock,  and 
stolidly  took  her  departure.  It  must  be  acknowledged 
she  was  no  great  loss,  her  services  had  been  merely 
nominal  before.  Mr.  Macnally  alone  looked  a  little 
anxious  as  she  withdrew,  and  glanced  with  curiosity 
towards  Mrs.  Emlyn,  I  suppose  to  see  if  she  were  not 
intending  to  make  an  exception,  as  they  were  not 
alone.  But  there  was  no  such  intention.  I  don't  think 
the  Princess  Dolgouruki  would  have  had  an  exception 
made  in  her  favor,  in  that  household. 

"  There  isn't  any  marmalade,"  cried  Naomi,  in  a 
disappointed  voice. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  her  aunt  serenely,  "  that  unless  you 
asked  me  for  it  when  I  was  in  the  store-room,  you  should 
not  have  it.  I  can  not  be  interrupted  at  my  meals." 

Naomi  refused  to  be  resigned.  "  Maidy  wants  some, 
too,"  she  said. 

"  Maidy  wants  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  are  trying 
to  put  her  up  to  it." 

"  Maidy,  don't  you  want  it  ?" 


66  TEA,    TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Maidy  in  an  embarrassed  whisper, 
"  what  does  she  mean  ?  What  is  marmalade  ?" 

Then  we  all  laughed,  and  Naomi  grew  red. 

"  Never  mind,  Naomi,"  said  the  tutor,  "  we  can't 
always  be  certain  of  our  witnesses." 

"  You  want  some,  I  know.  Aunt  Penelope,  Mr. 
Macnally  wants  some  marmalade." 

"  What  is  it  ?     I  don't  know  even  what  it's  like." 

"  It's  like  what  you  ate  half  a  jar  of  last  night,  and 
that's  the  reason  that  there  isn't  any  now." 

"  My  fish !"  cried  Ned,  stung  by  a  sudden  recollec 
tion.  He  hadn't  got  as  far  as  marmalade  yet,  but  was 
eating  chicken  and  potato  salad  with  a  ravenous  appe 
tite.  "My  fish  have  been  forgotten.  Aunt  Penelope, 
the  cook  promised  them  for  tea.  Mayn't  she  send  them 
up  ?" 

"  No,  that  she  mayn't.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  it's  half-past  seven  o'clock." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go  and  get  them  for 
myself,"  and  he  got  up  and  disappeared  in  the  direction 
of  the  kitchen  stairs. 

The  colonel  watched  him  with  a  look  of  admira 
tion,  but  I  noticed  he  always  spoke  to  him  with  a  sort  of 
severity,  as  became  a  man  and  a  guardian.  He  lived 
over  secretly  in  the  handsome  boy  his  past  youth  and 
its  pleasures.  While  Ned  was  dishing  his  fish  in  the 
kitchen,  Mrs.  Emlyn  had  been  brooding  over  the  dis 
appointment  to  Naomi  in  the  matter  of  the  marmalade. 
With  all  her  majesty,  she  had  the  tenderest  heart,  and 
it  destroyed  her  comfort  to  think  the  child  was  denied 
anything. 

"  You  don't  mind  how  much  trouble  you  give,"  she 
exclaimed  at  last,  getting  up,  unable  to  bear  the  rank- 


TEA,     TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY.  67 

ling  thought  any  longer.  Everybody  had  forgotten 
about  marmalade  by  that  time,  and  while  she  hunted 
for  the  right  key  on  her  bunch,  and  walked  away  like 
Lady  Macbeth,  we  all  wondered. 

"Aunt  Penelope ! "  cried  Naomi,  divining,  "  I  don't 
want  the  marmalade.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  get  it." 

And  full  of  compunction  she  sprang  up  and  ran  after 
her  aunt,  who  did  not  look  back  at  her. 

"  Macnally,"  said  the  colonel,  "  did  I  get  you  out 
that  Sauterne  yesterday  ?  No  ?  Then  while  the  store 
room  is  open,  and  I  think  of  it,  I'll  go  and  look  for  it. 
You'll  want  it  with  your  fish,  if  Ned  should  ever  bring 
it  up/' 

And  the  colonel  pushed  back  his  chair  and  went 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  store-room.  Mr.  Macnally 
glanced  round  the  table  at  the  four  chairs  pushed  back, 
the  four  napkins  lying  in  various  outspread  attitudes, 
the  four  unfinished  plates,  and  cups  of  tea ;  and  then 
his  eyes  met  mine  with  a  look  compounded  of  apology, 
deprecation,  and  very  keen  amusement.  I  was  very 
glad  he  did  not  say  anything,  it  would  have  seemed  dis 
loyal.  No  doubt  his  instincts  could  be  trusted,  for  I 
don't  suppose  he  thought  of  speaking,  from  the  way  in 
which  he  applied  himself  to  Maidy's  entertainment 
across  the  table,  but  I  did  not  know  him  enough  to  be 
sure  he  wouldn't,  at  the  first  moment.  It  was  such  a 
situation,  most  men  would  have  felt  at  liberty  to  make 
a  joke  about  it,  particularly  a  man  who  seemed  to  have 
lisped  in  comic  numbers,  if  one  could  judge  from  the 
habitual  expression  of  his  eyes. 

Meanwhile  Maidy  was  eating  a  great  deal  more  than 
was  good  for  her ;  she  was  not  used  to  such  a  bewilder 
ing  profusion  of  nice  things.  I  had  been  rather  too 


G8  TEA,     TREATED     UNCONVENTIONALLY. 

much  embarrassed  to  enjoy  my  tea  very  much,  but  I  had 
enjoyed  the  sunset  opposite  me,  and  the  novelty  of 
everything,  and  the  study  of  human  nature,  though  I 
had  not  reached  the  stage  of  knowing  that  I  studied  it. 
First  Ned  eame  back,  bringing  his  fish,  then  the  colonel 
with  his  bottle  of  wine,  then  Mrs.  Emlyn  and  Naomi, 
each  with  a  jar  or  two  of  marmalade.  The  fish  seemed 
such  a  temptation  that  they  all  began  again.  All  ex 
cept  the  lady  of  the  house,  who,  by  a  contradiction  that 
seemed  inevitable,  always  ate  less  than  other  people,  not 
withstanding  her  grand  proportions. 

"  Naomi,"  said  her  aunt,  "  why  don't  you  eat  the 
marmalade  you've  given  me  such  trouble  to  get  out  for 
you  ?  You  haven't  even  opened  the  jar." 

"  I  didn't  know  there  was  going  to  be  fish,"  said 
Naomi,  a  little  abashed. 

"  And  Mr.  Macnally  and  Maidy,  that  were  in  such 
a  state  for  it.  I  think  it  was  all  a  conspiracy  to  get  me 
to  the  store-room." 

"  The  fish  was  sprung  upon  us,  Mrs.  Emlyn ;  we 
didn't  know  there  was  going  to  be  fish.  It's  all  Ned's 
fault,  he  should  have  given  us  warning.  Colonel 
Emlyn,  I'd  like  another  slice  of  it,  if  you've  no  objec 
tion." 

Colonel  Emlyn  seemed  to  like  nothing  better  than 
supplying  those  two  hungry  plates,  and  filling  up  the 
tutor's  several  times  empty  glass ;  he  looked  severe, 
but  his  eyes  were  kindly  and  affectionate.  Mrs.  Emlyn 
had  taken  up  her  knitting,  and  sat  half  pushed  back 
from  the  table.  Naomi's  appetite  was  at  last  appeased, 
and  Maidy  would  no  more  of  jelly  and  cake.  Ned  and 
his  tutor  were  still  eating  and  chaffing,  while  they  all 
looked  on  and  occasionally  joined  in  the  skirmishing. 


TEA,     TREATED    UXCOXVENTIONALLY.  69 

It  had  been  a  very  prolonged  meal :  the  sunset  had  died 
down  into  a  yellow  glow  that  overspread  the  sky,  but 
did  not  illuminate  the  room. 

"  Naomi,  if  these  young  gentlemen  are  going  to  eat 
all  night,  you  will  have  to  light  the  candles." 

"  Not  for  me,"  cried  Mr.  Macnally,  "  I  can  see  my 
way  to  the  Sauterne,  and  that  is  all  I  ask." 

"Well,  then,  she'll  have  to  light  them  for  me,  for 
I've  only  just  begun." 

Naomi  grumbled  at  having  to  do  anything  for 
her  brother,  but  her  aunt  put  her  down  promptly,  and 
she  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  lighting  the  candles 
in  two  silver  candlesticks  with  three  or  four  branches 
apiece,  and  in  setting  them  on  the  table.  Maidy  got 
down  from  her  chair  when  Naomi  rose  to  get  the  can 
dles  lighted,  and  in  an  innocent  fashion  made  her  way 
around  to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  where  the  tutor 
sat.  He  lifted  her  upon  his  knee,  and  pushed  his  plate 
back,  and  occupied  himself  thenceforth  in  low  engross 
ing  chatter  with  her,  into  which  she  entered  with  a  se 
date  interest  that  was  very  pretty.  Finally  Ned  de 
clared  himself  satisfied,  and  as  the  waitress  had  come  back, 
her  own  meal  being  ended,  and  had  begun  languidly 
to  take  the  tea-things  off  the  table,  we  moved  away. 

Then  I  was  introduced  into  another  room,  that  I 
found  only  second  to  the  dining-room  in  interest.  This 
was  the  parlor,  which  was  separated  from  the  dining- 
room  by  a  curtain.  It  was  on  the  ocean  side  of-  the 
house,  about  half  the  size  of  the  dining-room,  the  other 
half  being  the  bed-room  of  Mrs.  Einlyn,  into  which  this 
opened.  It  was  a  more  civilized  room  than  the  dining- 
room,  having  walls  stained  a  sort  of  old  gold,  with  cedar 
wainscoting  and  mantel.  There  were  several  good 


70  TEA,    TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY. 

pictures,  a  piano,  and  plenty  of  well-worn  easy-chairs, 
and  one  or  two  sofas.  A  large  square  table  with  a  lamp 
on  it  was  covered  with  books  and  drawing  things.  To 
this  the  children  naturally  gravitated,  as  their  territory  ; 
a  smaller  lamp  and  a  smaller  table,  in  another  corner, 
seemed  the  quarters  of  their  aunt.  The  colonel,  evidently 
less  gregarious,  established  himself  in  a  great  chair  be 
tween  the  fire-place  and  the  dining-table,  on  which  the 
maid  had  put  another  lamp,  and  smoked  and  read  the 
paper,  or  listened  to  the  chatter  from  the  other  room  as 
seemed  him  good.  Mrs.  Emlyn  invited  me  to  go  out 
on  the  piazza,  and  we  walked  up  and  down  together  for 
a  few  moments. 

"  It  is  good  to  get  the  glare  of  the  lamps  out  of  one's 
eyes,"  she  said,  "  and  the  noise  of  those  children  out  of 
one's  ears." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  change  from  the  lighted  room  to 
the  solemn  starlight  of  the  dark  skies,  and  the  deep 
monotone  of  the  sea  breaking  on  the  beach  beyond  us. 

"  Youth  is  good,"  she  said,  "  and  high  spirits  and 
the  ferment  that  they  bring ;  but  at  my  age,  one  has  to 
have  frequent  silences  to  rest  one  from  them.  You, 
I  suppose,  like  it,  and  it  doesn't  tire  you  ?" 

"  I  am  not  used  to  it,"  I  answered.  "  It  might  tire 
me,  for  very  long.  It  pleases  me  now,  because  it's  such 
a  novelty." 

"  Wait  till  your  children  are  a  few  years  older,  and 
you'll  have  enough  of  it.  It  seems  a  great  way  off,  I 
suppose,  but  it  will  be  here  before  you  know  it.  When 
Naomi  and  Ned  first  came  to  us — it  seems  but  yesterday 
— they  were  babies  in  the  nursery  ;  and  now  they  are 
such  great  creatures,  with  wills  of  their  own,  and  indi 
viduality  developing  one  way  or  the  other  fast  enough 


TEA,     TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY.  l 

to  frighten  one.  I'm  quite  easy  about  Naomi,  she's 
sweet-natured,  and  good-brained,  and  a  comfort.  But 
Ned  is  such  a  strong  young  colt,  I  feel  as  if  none  of  us 
could  hold  him  in,  or  turn  him,  if  he  got  started  in  the 
wrong  direction.  And,  who  knows  how  soon  he  may? 
It  is  a  great  thing  that  we  ha\7e  got  such  a  man  as  Mac- 
nally  for  him.  He  is  like  a  boy  with  him  ;  but  I  am 
satisfied  that  he  keeps  his  authority  in  spite  of  it,  and 
that  Ned  studies  as  he  never  did  before." 

"  Has  Mr.  Macnally  been  with  you  long  ?" 

"  Only  since  January.  Ned  had  been  at  school,  but, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  we  had  to  take  him  away.  He 
wouldn't  study,  and  he  would  get  into  scrapes ;  silly 
boy  scrapes,  with  not  much  harm  in  them,  to  be  sure ; 
but  we  were  worn  out  with  pulling  him  out  and  starting 
him  fresh.  It  was  all  waste  time,  base  ball  and  secret 
societies.  So  the  colonel  advertised  for  a  tutor,  and 
this  one  turned  up,  and  he  seems  the  very  man  for  us. 
We  dreaded  it  very  much.  Naomi's  governesses  had 
always  been  such  a  nuisance  in  the  house.  But  really 
I  don't  know  now  how  we  could  get  on  without  Mac 
nally.  When  Ned  has  to  go,  I  think  we'll  have  to  have 
Naomi  prepared  for  college,  just  to  keep  him." 

"He  is  an  Englishman?" 

"  No,  an  Irishman.  Didn't  you  notice  his  accent  ? 
He  had  only  been  in  the  country  a  few  weeks,  I  believe, 
when  he  came  to  us.  I've  often  wondered  why  he 
came  away  from  home.  Everything  about  him,  his 
clothes,  and  toilet  things,  and  all  that,  without  being 
dainty  exactly,  look  like  a  petted  sort  of  son.  But  he's 
a  reticent  fellow,  after  a  certain  point,  up  to  which  he 
is  frankness  personified.  I  only  hope  we  never  shall 
be  disappointed  in  him." 


72  TEA,    TREATED    UNCONVENTIONALLY. 

"  Ar'n't  you  afraid  he  will  upset  the  lamp  ?"  I  ex 
claimed,  rather  irrelevantly,  for  I  had  been  gazing  into 
the  room,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  tremble  for  the 
furniture,  with  what  was  going  on. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Emlyn,  calmly,  "  I'm  used  to  it. 
They  have  broken  one  or  two,  but  the  oil  is  non-ex 
plosive,  and  it  won't  hurt  the  floor.  I've  taken  the 
rugs  away  from  that  side  of  the  room,  and  there  is  no 
cover  on  the  table.  If  they  spoil  their  own  books  and 
drawings  it  is  their  look-out." 

"  But  if  they  burn  up  my  Maidy  ?' 

"  Oh,  there  isn't  any  danger ;  Mr.  Macnally  keeps 
her  under  his  arm.  I  should  always  be  willing  to  trust 
him  with  children ;  he  seems  to  love  them.  There  is 
one  thing  about  him,  he  can  always  stop  an  uproar  by 
a  word.  They  don't  often  go  too  far." 

We  wratched  the  uproar,  till  it  was  quenched,  as  she 
had  predicted,  in  a  magical  sort  of  way,  and  Naomi 
picked  up  the  sofa  cushions,  and  pushed  the  hair  back 
from  her  flushed  face ;  and  Ned  shook  himself,  and  got 
his  loose  flannel  shirt  straight  above  the  belt,  and  took 
up  a  paper  and  settled  himself  to  read.  The  tutor,  mean 
time,  did  not  seem  to  have  lost  his  care  of  Maidy,  who 
was  looking  elated,  but  a  little  frightened ;  lie  led  her 
over  to  the  piano,  and  took  her  on  his  knee,  while  he 
played  some  soft  melody,,  and  whispered  songs,  I  should 
think,  into  her  ear.  Mrs.  Emlyn  and  I  walked  up  and 
down  in  the  starlight  for  a  little  longer,  and  then  went 
in  to  get  ready  for  my  going  home. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  anybody,"  I  said  ;  "  it  isn't 
very  dark ;  I  don't  think  I  should  be  afraid." 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Ned,  getting  up,  and  looking  awk 
wardly  polite. 


TEA,    TREATED    TJXCONVEXTIOXALLY.  73 

"You've  got  to  study  your  Latin,"  said  Naomi, 
officiously.  "Mr.  Macnally  said  you  bad.  He  said 
he'd  have  to  take  Maidy  and  her  mother  home  himself ; 
that  you  must  study  all  the  evening." 

Ned's  eyes  said,  mind  your  own  business,  and  a 
good  deal  else,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  be  more  explicit, 
before  me.  I  didn't  think  the  tutor  looked  particu 
larly  pleased  with  Naomi's  zeal  in  the  arrangement  of 
affairs  ;  he  got  up  from  the  piano  and,  putting  Maidy 
down,  said  Ned  could  be  excused  for  the  little  while 
that  he  would  have  to  be  gone. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  to  have  to  trouble  any  one,"  I  said, 
stooping  to  tie  a  handkerchief  on  Maidy's  neck. 

"  You  see  how  much  you  got  by  it,"  muttered  Ned, 
as  he  passed  by  Naomi  to  hunt  for  his  cap. 

The  colonel  was  fast  asleep  by  his  lamp  in  the  din 
ing-room,  so  we  tried  to  be  very  quiet  as  we  went 
through  the  room.  They  all  accompanied  us  to  the 
steps  of  the  piazza. 

"  I  want  you  to  go,"  said  Maidy,  pulling  at  the 
tutor's  hand. 

"Didn't  you  hear,"  he  whispered,  "I've  got  to 
study  my  Latin  lesson  ?" 

Naomi  went  with  us  to  the  gate ;  Mrs.  Emlyn  and 
Mr.  Macnally  were  satisfied  with  saying  good-bye  on 
the  steps.  Maidy  was  dissatisfied,  and  looked  back  re 
proachfully  while  she  could  see  her  friend  by  the  light 
from  the  windows,  and  when  she  couldn't  she  began  to 
fret  and  say  she  was  tired,  and  wanted  to  be  carried. 
Ned  offered  to  carry  her,  but  she  wouldn't  consent,  and 
clung  to  my  dress  peevishly.  I  am  afraid  we  were  not 
so  agreeable  as  to  make  Ned  glad  lie  had  come,  except 
in  so  far  as  he  felt  that  he  had  circumvented  Naomi. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BRINGING   THE   MAIL. 

"  This  is  the  curse  of  life!  that  not 

A  noble,  calmer  train 
Of  wiser  thoughts  and  feelings  blot 

Our  passions  from  our  brain ; 
But  each  day  brings  its  petty  dust 

Our  soon-choked  souls  to  fill, 
And  we  forget  because  we  must, 
And  not  because  we  will." 

Matthew  Arnold. 

THE  next  evening,  as  I  sat  by  the  lamp  in  the 
little  parlor,  I  heard  the  latch  of  the  gate 
opened,  and  the  tutor's  light,  quick  tread  upon  the  bal 
cony  steps.  The  door  stood  open,  so  he  could  not 
knock,  but  took  a  step  into  the  little  hall,  and  paused, 
in  sight  from  the  parlor  .door,  open  also.  Pie  lifted 
his  cap,  and  said  he  had  brought  my  letters,  or,  to  be 
more  accurate,  my  paper. 

"  My  mail  never  amounts  to  much,"  I  said,  getting 
up  and  taking  the  paper,  in  its  stale-looking  wrapper, 
and  sighing  a  little  as  I  thought  of  how  I  used  to  watch 
for  the  coming  of  the  mail.  "  All  the  same,"  I  added, 
correcting  the  sigh  to  a  smile,  "  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  bringing  it.  Won't  you  come  in  f 

He  was  a  little  better  dressed  than  he  had  been  on 
the  occasions  on  which  I  had  met  him ;  that  is,  he  had 
L74] 


BKINGING    THE    MAIL.  75 

a  coat  on,  and  a  white  shirt,  and  a  cravat.  This  led  me 
to  think  that  perhaps  lie  had  meant  to  come  in. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  pay  Miss  Maidy  a  visit,"  he 
said.  "  She  has  earnestly  requested  it." 

"  She  has  gone  to  bed ;  I  am  sorry  not  to  give  you 
the  excuse." 

"  I  don't  want  an  excuse,  but  a  permission,"  he  said, 
taking  the  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  while  I 
sat  down  again.  As  on  the  other  occasions  when  we 
had  been  alone  together,  his  manner  lost  its  confidence, 
and  he  became,  though  always  well-bred,  shy  and  rather 
piquantly  embarrassed.  He  seemed  to  need  the  defense 
of  the  children  to  get  on  well  with  me.  When  he  was 
throwing  pillows  at  Ned  the  night  before  he  had  not 
seemed  to  mind  me  much,  though,  to  be  sure,  I  had  been 
on  the  piazza,  and  not  actually  in  the  room ;  and  at  the 
tea-table  he  had  not  shown  much  embarrassment  while 
lie  ate  all  that  fish  and  tortured  !Ned  about  his  Latin. 
These  reflections  made  me  a  little  less  embarrassed  my 
self  ;  it  made  me  feel  older  than  he.  Besides,  that  pass 
ing  shade  of  thought  about  my  want  of  interest  in  letters 
that  might  come  to  me  now,  had  its  effect  in  making  me 
— what  shall  I  say — dignified,  self-respectful,  apart. 
The  past  cast  this  faint  sort  of  shadow  upon  me,  and 
made  me  appear  what  was  not  quite  natural  to  me,  and 
what  I  had  not  appeared  before  since  I  had  been  in  this 
place,  devoid  of  old  associations. 

"  It  is  quite  a  walk  for  you  to  the  office  ;  do  you 
go  every  night  ?" 

"Ordinarily,  I  like  the  walk  after  tea.  I  would 
rather  leave  I^ed  wrestling  with  his  Anabasis  than  bft 
present  during  the  struggle." 

"  It  isn't  always  a  victory,  I'm  afraid." 


76  BRINGING    THE    MAIL. 

"  Scarcely  a  victory,  poor  boy.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  anybody  who  hated  study  as  he  does." 

"  Do  most  boys  feel  that  way  ?     Did  you  ?" 

"  I  ? — ah — well,  I  don't  know.  I  liked  play  a  good 
deal  more  than  work,  of  course,  but  I  took  hold  better 
than  Ned.  I  hadn't  the  same  temptations  as  he,  every 
body  watching  me,  and  being  so  important.  There 
were  such  a  lot  of  us  there  wasn't  much  account  made 
of  how  we  felt  about  it ;  we  hadn't  much  chance  if  we 
didn't  work  ;  we  had  to  strike  out  pretty  well  or  we'd 
have  gone  down,  and  nobody  to  cry  about  us  either." 

"  You  mean  at  home  ?" 

I  suppose  this  was  passing  that  certain  point  where, 
according  to  Mrs.  Emlyn,  Mr.  Macnally's  frankness  ended 
and  where  his  reticence  began,  for,  with  a  slight  contrac 
tion  of  the  forehead  he  said — yes,  among  his  brothers 
and  some  young  cousins  who  were  brought  up  with 
them.  Then  he  went  back  instantly  to  Ned,  and  the  dis 
advantage  that  it  was  to  a  boy  to  be  made  too  much  of. 

"  That  seems  to  me  the  mistake  about  the  bringing 
up  of  children  in  this  country,  in  the  better  classes,  I 
mean.  Whether  it  is  that  the  people  are  new  to  wealth 
and  don't  know  how  to  manage  it,  or  are  simply  trying 
to  correct  the  errors  of  their  own  less  favored  child 
hood,  and  are  going  too  far  the  other  way,  I  don't  know. 
But  it  strikes  me  all  the  time  that  too  much  is  being 
done  for  children ;  they're  not  only  being  pampered 
and  stimulated  in  their  pleasures  and  amusements,  but 
they're  being  worried  over  and  experimented  upon  in 
their  studies.  I  don't  mean  this  as  regards  Ned  and 
Naomi's  guardians ;  circumstances  have  made  the 
trouble  with  them." 


BEINGING   THE    MAIL.  77 

"  I  don't  believe  I  know  enough  of  the  bringing  up 
of  children  here  or  anywhere  to  judge." 

"  I  taught  a  little  while  in  a  school  before  I  came  to 
Colonel  Emlyn,  and  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  it."  This 
did  not  seem  to  be  a  pleasant  recollection,  and  we  had 
evidently  again  reached  the  point  alluded  to  by  Mrs. 
Emlyn.  We  seemed  bringing  up  against  it  all  the  time, 
and  I  wondered  whether  I  was  catechetical,  or  what.  I 
certainly  did  want  to  know  something  about  him.  He 
piqued  my  curiosity  all  the  time.  I  had  often  found 
myself  wondering  about  him  ever  since  the  day  he 
picked  Rex  up  by  the  hair.  I  had  not  made  up  my 
mind  whether  I  thought  him  handsome  or  not,  whether 
I  thought  him  covertly  amused  at  everything  American, 
or  not ;  whether  I  thought  him  very  humble,  or  very 
proud,  or  secretly  chafing  at  liis  inferior  position ; 
whether  he  thought  everything  the  Emlyns  did  was 
perfect,  even  to  the  way  they  had  the  table  set,  or 
whether  he  condemned  them  in  his  supercilious  British 
heart.  I  did  not  even  feel  that  I  knew  what  his  opin 
ion  was  of  my  intelligence ;  but  I  felt  \vith  a  certain 
feminine  intuition  that  he  did  not  disapprove  of  my 
appearance. 

';  People  are  so  hard  upon  American  children,"  I 
said.  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  studying  up  the  sub 
ject  to  prevent  my  two  from  being  like  the  rest  of  their 
relations.  I've  read  Herbert  Spencer,  and  Miss  Sewell, 
and  Miss  Edge  worth,  and  I  approve  very  much,  in  turn, 
of  what  each  one  says  about  the  bringing  up  of  chil 
dren  ;  but,  somehow,  it  doesn't  seem  to  make  any  dif 
ference  in  the  way  I  bring  mine  up.  Maidy  has  her 
own  individual  way  of  being  naughty,  and  I  have  my 


78  BRINGING    THE    MAIL. 

own  individual  way  of  getting  her  over  it,  and  none  of 
the  examples  seem  to  lit." 

"Then  Maidy  is  sometimes  naughty?  I  shouldn't 
have  thought  it  of  her,  the  pretty  little  atom." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  there  is  the  germ  of  the  worst 
American  child  in  her." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  I  am  sure  it  is  the  germ  of  a 
bad  little  Irish  girl.  I  can  trace  it  in  her,  now  you 
speak  of  it." 

"  Well,  little  as  I  know  of  American  children,  I 
know  less  of  Irish." 

"  Except  your  washerwoman's.  I  didn't  mean  your 
washerwoman's,  though  that's  the  general  standard  of 
the  nation  here,  I  find." 

"  Naturally,  when  only  washerwomen  come  here." 

"  It  doesn't  show  a  strong  imagination  to  be  satis 
fied  with  believing  in  a  nation  of  washerwomen." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  don't  suppose  anybody  does  believe 
in  that,  but  it's  difficult  always  to  keep  up  a  faith  in 
what  one  doesn't  see.  Now,  when  one  has  been  strength 
ened  by  seeing  an  Irish  gentleman  in  the  flesh — " 

"  If  the  mise  en  scene  isn't  too  great  a  strain  upon 
the  credulity,"  he  said,  and  I  fancied  a  flush  passed 
over  his  face  as  well  as  a  quick  smile.  We  got  out  of 
that  somehow,  and  back  upon  the  mail,  the  post-office, 
the  post-master,  and  the  late  hour  that  the  train  came 
in. 

"  It's  absurd,"  he  said,  "having  the  morning  paper 
at  this  hour  of  the  night,  when  it  might  be  here  at 
noon."  » 

"  If  it  did  not  come  till  to-morrow  night,  I  should 
not  care." 

"  Then  you  never  read  the  papers  ?" 


BRINGING    TSE    MAIL.  79 

"  I  don't  care  much  about  them,  and  as  for  letters, 
I  get  almost  none.  I  would  cheerfully  sign  off  my  in 
terest  in  the  post-office  till  September  for  a  very  small 
sum.  I  hope  they  don't  tax  me  for  the  support  of  the 
post-office  ?  How  are  post-offices  sustained  ?" 

"That  shows,  indeed,  that  you  don't  read  the 
papers,  and  that  you're  not  informed  about  the '  institoo- 
tions '  of  your  country.  But  it  surprises  me  less  to  hear 
that,  than  to  hear  that  you  don't  care  for  letters,  and 
are  not  counting  the  hours  to  mail-time  from  the 
moment  you  get  up." 

"  South  Berwick  contains  all  that  interests  me ;  I 
can't  think  of  where  a  letter  could  come  from  that 
could  interest  me  in  the  least." 

"  Somebody  might  leave  you  a  fortune." 

"  They  wouldn't  know  where  to  direct  it,  if  they 
did." 

"  I  suppose  the  lawyers  would  keep  it  in  a  pigeon 
hole  till  you  got  back  in  September  from  your  exile." 

"  It  isn't  exile.  I'm  no  more  out  of  the  world  here 
than  I  am  in  the  city.  There's  nobody  to  take  the 
trouble  to  write  to  me,  that  is  the  plain  truth.  I  haven't 
any  members  of  my  family  left ;  the  few  friends  I  had, 
when  I  was  a  girl,  live  so  far  away  I  have  lost  sight  of 
them,  and  interest  too,  I  am  afraid.  And  as  to  the  rela 
tions  of  my — my  children,  they  are  equally  remote  from 
here,  and  I  never  have  known  them  well.  I  came  to 
the  city  a  stranger,  and  all  the  time  I  have  spent  there 
I  have  been  absorbed,  and  selfish  perhaps — a  great 
deal  of  the  time  too  ill  and  too  unhappy  to  seek 
friends,  or  to  endure  them  if  they  had  sought  me." 

I  felt  viciously  candid.  I  had  an  impulse  to  show 
him  I  was  insignificant,  and  that  there  was  no  mystery 


80  BRINGING    THE    MAIL. 

about  my  past,  only  obscurity.  I  did  not  look  at  him, 
so  I  did  not  know  at  all  how  he  received  these  un 
necessary  statements.  I  sat  leaning  back  in  my  chair 
with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  looking  into  the  fire,  which 
now  and  then  blazed  up,  and  now  and  then  sent  out  a 
little  shower  of  sparks.  Sophia  had  bought  a  cord  of 
hickory,  and  the  kindling  was  of  drift-wood,  which  the 
children  helped  her  to  gather  on  the  beach.  Though  it 
was  June,  we  never  failed  to  have  a  fire  at  night. 

"  So  you'll  understand,"  I  said,  taking  my  eyes  from 
the  fire  and  glancing  at  him  with  a  smile,  after  a  silence 
of  several  minutes,  "  why  I  am  not  likely  to  get  many 
letters  while  I  am  living  at  South  Berwick." 

He  was  not  looking  at  the  fire,  but  at  me,  intently, 
but  he  glanced  away. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  forced  sort  of  voice, 
as  if  he  had  not  expected  to  be  called  upon  to  speak 
that  moment ;  "  and  that  you  won't  be  overcome  with 
gratitude  for  what  I  may  bring  you  from  the  office." 

At  that  instant  a  stick  broke  in  the  middle,  sawed 
in  two  by  a  sharp  little  persistent  blaze  beneath,  that 
had  not  intermitted.  One  end  rolled  across  the  little 
hearth  of  the  Franklin  stove,  and  toppled  over  on  the 
rug.  We  both  sprang  forward  ;  Mr.  Macnally  caught  it 
by  the  uncharred  end  and  threw  it  back  upon  the 
andirons. 

"  We  haven't  any  fender ;  it  is — " 

"  A  burning  shame,"  said  he,  shaking  the  ashes  from 
his  hand. 

"  Yes,  a  burning  shame ;  I  hope  you'll  tell  the  colonel 
and  he'll  have  to  hunt  one  up  for  us,  or  take  out  a  new 
insurance  on  his  house." 

"I  am  afraid  fenders  are  at  a  premium.     I  have 


BRINGING    THE    MAIL.  81 

heard  a  good  deal  about  it  since  we  have  been  here. 
The  colonel  has  bought  all  the  old  chests  of  drawers 
and  three-cornered  chairs  and  andirons  within  a  radius 
of  six  miles ;  but  it  strikes  me  he  has  failed  to  find  a 
fender." 

"  Perhaps,  outside  that  radius, — don't  you  think  he 
may  be  persuaded  ?  I  think  I'll  try  myself." 

"  Should  you  like  to  go  ?  Perhaps  we  might  or 
ganize  a  fender  hunt." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  delightful.  Meanwhile,  Mr. 
Macnally,  you  are  not  making  that  fire  up  properly,  if 
you'll  let  me  say  so.  The  stove  is  too  shallow  for  a  back 
log  ;  it  smokes  the  moment  that  you  put  one  on.  You  are 
used  to  the  Happy-go-lucky  chimneys,  which  are  built 
on  more  extravagant  principles." 

"  They  certainly  ought  not  to  smoke  ;  that  dining- 
room  affair  has  had  enough  spent  on  it  to  build  an  or 
dinary  house.  From  what  I  can  learn,  the  colonel  de 
voted  three  years  of  his  life  to  it." 

"  And  does  it  ever  smoke  now  ?" 

"  Rarely  ;  it  may  be  said  to  draw  fairly  well,  except, 
of  course,  when  the  wind's  in  certain  quarters." 

"  The  dear  colonel !  Isn't  he  nice  ?" 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  so ;  nobody  could  be  nicer." 
This  he  said  gravely,  and  with  a  certain  earnestness. 

"  And  Mrs.  Ernlyn,"  I  said.  "  I  think  she  is  differ 
ent  from  any  one  I  ever  knew.  I  am  so  unused  to 
strangers,  I  was  inclined  to  be  very  much  afraid  of  her. 
But  now  I  think  I  entirely  admire  her  and  feel  almost 
at  home  with  her." 

"  She  is  so  devoid  of  self-consciousness  and  so  gen 
uine,  she  ought  to  inspire  confidence  in  any  one  she 
wants  to  please." 
4* 


82  BRINGING    THE    MAIL. 

"I  hope  she  will  always  want  to  please  me.  I  should 
not  like  to  be  any  one  she  didn't  want  to  please.  As  you 
say,  she  is  so  genuine,  it  wouldn't  occur  to  her  to  dis 
guise  the  fact." 

Mr.  Macnally  laughed  a  little,  but  he  did  not  say  any 
thing.  It  annoyed  me  that  he  should  think  it  necessary 
to  be  so  discreet.  Loyalty,  I  suppose,  he  would  have 
called  it,  but  it  seemed  to  me  only  an  unnecessary  dis 
cretion.  I  concluded  we  would  not  further  discuss 
people  to  whom  he  felt  himself  so  bound  as  not  to  be 
natural  in  speaking  of  them. 

When  he  went  away,  Sophia  swooped  in  and  began 
to  bang  the  shutters  almost  before  he  shut  the  gate,  and 
to  put  out  the  lights. 


CHAPTER  YIII.' 

IN   EE   BRASS. 

"Le  coq  frar^ais  est  le  coq  de  la  gloire, 
Par  le  revers  il  n'est  point  abattu  ; 
II  chante  fort,  s'il  gagne  la  victoire, 
Encore  plus  fort,  quand  il  est  bien  battu." 

IT  was  a  cold,  bright  morning  ;  I  wrapped  myself  in 
a  warm  shawl,  and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  sun 
before  the  house,  and  watched  the  children  at  their  play. 
Their  noses  looked  a  trifle  blue,  as  they  frisked  about  in 
their  stout  little  coats  and  tried  to  open  the  gate  with 
their  be-mittened  little  fingers.  Sophia  was  busy  about 
some  household  matter,  and  had  left  them  in  my  charge 
for  an  hour  or  so.  The  sun  was  growing  a  little  warmer, 
and  when  I  was  tired  I  sat  down  on  the  horseblock  out 
side  the  gate,  and  rested.  As  to  the  children  they  never 
seemed  to  tire,  but  purred  about  in  contented  little 
games  into  which,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  did  not  even 
try  to  enter.  It  rather  bored  me;  and  when  I  had 
opened  the  gate  ad  nauseam,  and  had  found  Baby's 
mitten  for  the  twentieth  time,  I  distinctly  admitted  to 
myself  that  I  wished  Sophia  would  get  through  her  work 
and  take  the  children  off  my  hands.  A  good  brisk  walk 
would  have  been  much  more  to  my  mind. 

I  was  sitting  on  the  horseblock,  harboring  these 
discontented  thoughts,  when  I  heard  a  shout  of  greet 
ing  behind  me,  and  turning,  saw  the  beach  cart,  with 

[83] 


84  IN    BE    BKASS. 

the  children  and  their  tutor,  drawing  up  to  the  gate. 
Mr.  Macnally  threw  the  reins  to  ISTed  and  sprang  out, 
coming  towards  me.  He  looked  quite  handsome  as  he 
stood,  cap  in  hand,  before  the  horseblock. 

"  That  fender-hunt,"  he  said.  "  We  have  come  to 
see  if  you  will  go  with  us  to-day." 

I  think  he  was  afraid  of  a  refusal ;  he  looked  quite 
earnest  and  a  little  shy,  and  as  if  he  were  prepared  to 
have  to  urge  it  very  much.  When  he  saw  the  delight 
which  lighted  my  face  at  the  prospect  of  getting  rid  of 
opening  and  shutting  the  gate  for  Baby,  and  assisting 
at  Maidy's  little  tragedies,  he  looked  much  relieved. 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better,"  I  said,  "  if  only  So 
phia  will  come  and  take  the  children.  I  promised  her  to 
keep  them  till  she  got  through  some  stupid  work  she's 
set  her  heart  upon." 

I  ran  in  to  sec.  Of  course,  she  wasn't  through ; 
of  course,  she  couldn't  have  them  for  an  hour,  at  least. 

"  Oh,  Sophia,  you'll  have  to !"  I  cried,  made  bold  by 
my  desire  to  go.  "  It  isn't  every  day  I  get  a  drive.  You'll 
have  to  let  the  things  wait,  or  bring  the  children  in." 

I  didn't  look  at  her ;  I  knew  she  was  desperately  an 
gry,  and  I  ran  away  to  get  my  gloves,  feeling  very  selfish 
and  very  young.  When  I  came  back  I  found  Baby  in 
]Sraomi's  arms  and  Maidy  in  her  friend's,  the  tutor's. 

"  Won't  you  let  them  go  too  ?"  said  the  latter. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Baby  has  to  take  her  nap 
in  half  an  hour.  It  would  be  insupportable.  It  would 
spoil  the  drive." 

"  Then  let  me  go,  mamma — let  me  go.  I'll  be  so 
good  I"  cried  Maidy,  in  trembling  suspense. 

"  Impossible,  Maidy  ;  you  know  there  isn't  room  for 
you.  You'll  stay  like  a  good  girl  and  play  with  Baby, 


IN    RE    BRASS.  85 

and  I'll  bring  you  home  some  wild  flowers  if  I  find 
fiome." 

Maidy  hid  her  face  on  her  friend's  shoulder  and 
sobbed  heart-brokenly.  Baby  meanwhile  was  scream 
ing  and  scolding  and  slapping  all  in  a  breath. 

"  Let  Maidy  go,  won't  you  ?"  said  the  tender-hearted 
tutor,  sotto  voce.  "There  is  room,  and  I'll  take  care  of 
her.  She  won't  be  any  trouble,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  It  would  be  rather  unreasonable  in  me  to  mind 
having  my  own  child.  Well,  if  you  don't,  she  can  go." 

Then  Baby  alone  remained  to  be  disposed  of.  I 
took  the  poor  little  termagant  from  Naomi  and  ran  in 
to  give  her  to  Sophia.  Bat  Sophia  would  not  even 
turn  around  from  the  closet  shelves,  which  she  was  put 
ting  in  order,  and  look  at  me.  I  had  to  kiss  poor  Baby 
and  set  her  down  on  the  floor,  and  call  out  my  direc 
tions  to  Sophia,  without  any  response.  Outside  the 
door  I  paused,  half  minded  to  give  up  the  drive,  and  go 
back  and  take  the  Baby  up.  But  through  the  door  I 
caught  sight  of  the  gay-looking  cart,  and  the  horse  with 
his  best  harness  on  ;  Maidy's  radiant  face,  with  her 
arms  around  the  tutor's  neck ;  Ned's  picturesque  suit, 
Naomi's  gypsey  hat ;  no — I  couldn't  give  it  up.  As  soon 
as  we  were  out  of  sight  Sophia  would  pick  up  Baby  and 
put  her  to  sleep ;  why  should  I  let  her  stubbornness 
spoil  everything  ?  So  I  went  out,  but  with  rather  a 
troubled  look.  • 

"  This  seat  is  the  most  comfortable,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
nally,  putting  me  in  the  front  seat.  "Ned,  who's 
going  to  drive  ?"  he  added. 

Ned  hated  the  back  seat  and  being  with  Naomi, 
and  showed  very  plainly  that  he  wanted  to.  "  Very  well, 
don't  break  our  necks  for  us,"  Mr.  Macnally  said, 


86  IN     RE     BRASS. 

putting  Maidy  in  at  the  back,  and  jumping  in  after 
her. 

Ned  got  in  beside  me,  and  took  the  reins  as  if  he 
felt  a  little  ashamed  of  having  been  so  selfish.  But  that 
didn't  last  long ;  he  was  too  familiar  with  the  sensation 
to  be  oppressed  by  it. 

"  It's  awfully  cold,"  he  said,  putting  a  blanket  over 
my  lap  ;  he  meant  to  make  up  by  being  very  consider 
ate  to  me.  The  tutor  had  already  muffled  Maidy  in 
wraps,  and  held  her  on  his  knee.  Naomi  was  holding 
on  with  both  hands.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  was  what 
people  on  the  back  seat  had  to  do  in  that  cart,  when  it 
went  fast. 

"  How  about  school  ?"  I  said.  "  Isn't  this  an  unusual 
hour  for  you  all  to  be  going  on  a  lark  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  cried  the  tutor,  "  didn't  we  tell  you  ?  Well, 
it  is  an  anniversary — we  have  so  many  feasts  of  obliga 
tion  at  Happy-go-lucky,  it  is  difficult  to  remember. 
But  this  is  a  birthday,  or  something  of  that  sort.  For 
so  small  a  family,  we  have  a  great  many  birthdays. 
This  is  the  third  since  we  came  down  from  town,  if  I 
remember  right." 

"  But  they  weren't  all  birthdays." 

"  They  were  all  holidays,  however,  and  very  imper 
ative.  I  don't  think  we  could  have  existed  if  we  hadn't 
taken  holidays." 

"But  whose  is  this?" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?"  cried  Naomi  in  jerks,  for  we 
were  going  very  fast. 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  the  suppression  of  these 
jerkc. 

"  It  isn't  a  birthday,"  said  the  tutor.  "  It's  an  anony 
mous  sort  of  celebration ;  it's  of  doubtful  origin- -an 


IN    EE    BRASS.  87 

apocryphal  event ;  it  isn't  generally  noticed  in  the 
family ;  but  the  day  was  fine,  Ned's  lessons  were 
unusually  hard,  and  Naomi  hadn't  written  her  French 
exercise.  Ned,  if  you  drive  so  fast  I  sha'n't  be  able  to 
articulate  another  word." 

"  I  don't  see  the  use  of  articulating  fibs,"  said  Ned, 
bumping  fast  over  a  bridge  going  out  of  the  village. 

"  I'll  tell  you ;  it's  Mr.  Macnally's  birthday  if  you 
want  to  know,"  cried  Naomi,  in  gasps,  from  the  rear. 

" '  However '  did  you  find  it  out  ?"  I  asked  her, 
looking  back.  "VVe  slacked  up  now  going  up  a  hill, 
and  Naomi  was  able  to  express  herself  quite  audibly. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  her  tutor,  throwing  an 
afghan  over  her  head.  The  smothered  explanations  from 
under  it  didn't  enlighten  me  much,  and  Ned,  who  was 
out  of  reach,  said,  "  Naomi  found  it  in  one  of  his  books 
when  she  was  snooping  about  his  room." 

"  I  didn't  snoop !"  cried  Naomi,  getting  her  head  out 
of  the  afghan.  "  Mr.  Macnally  sent  me  up  to  find  a 
book  on  his  table,  and  the  window  was  open,  and  a  per 
fect  gale,  and  all  the  things  blowing  about,  and  his 
prayer-book  and  his  portfolio  on  the  floor.  And  I 
picked  them  up  and  the  fly-leaf  was  loose  and  I  put  it 
back  and  it  had  the  date  on  it,  and  I  couldn't  help  see 
ing.  I  don't  call  that  snooping." 

"No  harm  done,  Naomi,"  he  said.  "We  shouldn't 
be  here  but  for  that  fly-leaf  and  that  gale.  It's  an  ill 
wind  that  blows  nobody  good." 

"  I  told  Aunt  Penelope  about  it,  and  she  said  we 
should  have  a  holiday,  and  Mr.  Macnally  didn't  want 
to,  and  got  quite  in  a  pet  about  it,  and  talked  to  Uncle, 
and  said  he  couldn't  do  us  any  justice  if  we  had  so 


88  m  RE  BRASS. 

many  holidays,  but  Aunt  Penelope  wouldn't  give  it  up, 
and  said  she'd — " 

"Come,  Naomi,"  said  the  tutor  decisively,  "tat- 
tling's  as  bad  as  snooping.  We're  here,  and  that's 
enough." 

"  Where  are  we,  please?  For  I  don't  think  I've 
ever  been  out  on  this  road  before." 

We  were  now  in  a  sandy  road  leading  through  a 
forest.  The  wind  could  not  get  at  us,  and  it  was  quite 
warm  and  sheltered  ;  and  having  to  go  slow  on  account 
of  the  sand,  Mr.  Macnally  and  Naomi  got  out  and 
walked  along  beside  us.  I  also  think  they  were  glad 
to  be  excused  a  little  while  from  the  back  seat.  The 
foliage  of  the  trees  was  not  very  heavy  and  the  sun 
came  down  warmly  through  them.  The  woods  were 
full  of  ferns  and  squaw-vine  in  bloom,  and  huckleberry 
and  blackberry  vines  in  blossom,  and  new  leaves  of  all 
sorts  of  pretty  shades.  Naomi  had  the  happiness  to 
find  a  strawberry,  nearly  ripe.  Maidy  got  down  too, 
and  walked.  At  last  the  road  grew  harder  and  Ned 
insisted  that  they  should  all  get  in  again,  "  if  we  wanted 
to  get  back  to-night." 

The  wood  seemed  endless ;  but  I,  being  on  the  front 
seat,  didn't  want  it  to  end  particularly. 

"  Turn  to  the  left,  Ned,"  said  the  tutor.  «  There's 
a  hamlet  over  in  that  direction  that  I  want  to  beat  up 
for  fenders." 

Presently  we  came  upon  a  little  opening  in  the 
woods,  and  then  a  field  or  two,  and  then,  on  slight  ris 
ing  ground,  we  came  in  sight  of  a  large,  old-fashioned 
farm-house,  with  a  fence  around  the  front  half  of  it,  and 
the  rear  half  open  to  a  road,  which  led  up  from  the 
highway.  There  was  a  colony  of  out-buildings,  more 


IN    RE    BRASS.  89 

or  less  shabby  ;  but  the  front  of  the  house  was  trim, 
and  had  box-wood  borders  to  the  path,  and  some  flow 
ers  in  raised  beds,  and  some  hydrangeas  in  big  green 
boxes  on  each  side  of  the  door.  The  small  panes  of 
the  windows,  and  the  fan-shaped  light  over  the  door,  at 
each  side  of  which  there  were  little  fluted  pillars,  all 
looked  like  pre-air-tight  antiquity. 

"  I  am  sure  they  must  have  fenders  here,  if  any 
where." 

" '  Just  the  place  for  a  snark,' "  the  tutor  cried,  leap 
ing  out.  We  all  waited  anxiously  while  he  knocked 
respectfully  at  the  door. 

"  Louder,  louder,"  called  Ned  and  Naomi,  after  we 
had  waited  a  great  while. 

They  called  louder,  and  he  knocked  louder,  till  one 
would  have  thought  the  panel  of  the  door  must  yield. 

"  Try  the  other  door."  The  fence  that  separated 
the  front  from  the  back  of  the  house  was  a  high  picket ; 
the  gate  was  barred. 

"  No  connection  with  the  corner  store,"  said  the 
tutor.  "  They  live  here  in  the  morning,  when  they  do 
their  work,  and  in  the  front  in  the  afternoon,  when 
they  have  their  'good  clothes'  on,  and  they  don't  speak 
to  themselves  if  they  meet  in  the  passages." 

"  Try  the  other  door ;  it's  too  cold  to  wait  all  day," 
cried  Ned.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  fence,  and  leaped 
over  it,  and  scrambled  through  long  grass  and  many 
shrubs,  to  the  front  door.  He  pounded  long  and  loudly 
there,  but  got  no  answer,  and  came  back  at  last,  shak 
ing  his  head. 

"They  know  what  we've  come  for,"  he  said,  "  and 
they've  barricaded  themselves  in  up  in  the  attic.  I  can 
see  a  frieze  of  fenders  through  that  little  dormer  win-, 


90  m  EE  BRASS. 

dow,  and  the  end  one  is  all  bristling  with  andirons,  and 
tongs  and  shovels.  All  such  lovely  brass." 

"You  don't  half  knock,"  said  Ned.  "If  you'll 
come  and  hold  this  horse,  I'll  make  'em  hear." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  tutor.  "  You  may  try  your 
fist  at  it  and  welcome.  Mine's  used  up." 

So  he  sprang  back  over  the  fence,  and  stood  by  the 
head  of  the  horse  while  Ned  got  out  and  went  up  to 
the  door  with  the  valor  of  fifteen.  While  he  was 
furiously  knocking,  Mr.  Macnally  sprang  up  and  took 
his  place  beside  me, 

"  Qui  va  &  la  chasse 
Perd  sa  place," 

he  said,  as  he  gathered  up  the  reins ;  "  come,  Ned, 
they've  all  gone  to  a  funeral,  even  the  dogs  and  cats. 
It's  nothing  but  a  waste  of  time."  When  Ned  turned 
around  and  saw  the  trick  that  had  been  played  upon 
him  :  "  All  right,"  he  said  good  humoredly,  as  he  got 
up  behind ;  "  I'll  pay  you  up  for  it  yet."  Not  a  dog 
had  barked  at  us,  the  house  was  as  deserted  as  if  no  one 
had  ever  lived  in  it,  and  yet  we  saw  a  thin  curl  of  smoke 
issuing  from  one  of  its  chimneys  as  we  drove  past  and 
looked  anxiously  back  at  it.  The  next  house  to  which 
we  came  was  a  miserable,  unpainted  little  place.  Ned 
had  only  got  down  when  a  woman  and  a  troop  of  un 
tidy  children  came  out  to  see  what  brought  us. 

"  We  are  looking,"  said  the  tutor  blandly,  "  for  a 
brass  fender.  We  thought  perhaps  you  had  one  to  dis 
pose  of." 

"  Lor,  no,"  said  the  woman,  deprecatingly,  as  if  a 
brass  fender  were  a  patent  of  nobility.  "  We  haven't 


IN    EE    BRASS.  91 

got  none  of  them  things.  Did  you  try  to  the  Squire's 
jest  above  here?" 

"We  tried,  that  is,  we  knocked — a  little — at  the 
door,  but  we  think  they  must  be  out — or  something. 
Nobody  came  to  answer." 

"  The  three  girls  is  deaf.  You  should  a  knocked 
quite  smart  and  lively." 

"Ah,  yes.  That  possibly  was  our  mistake.  We  must 
try  again.  In  the  meantime,  perhaps  you  have  some 
thing  to  dispose  of — " 

"Early  potatoes,  do  you  mean,  or  garden  sass?" 
asked  the  woman.  "  Well,  not  now,  but  we  shall  have 
next  week  or  thereabouts." 

"I  didn't  mean  in  that  line,  exactly.  We  want 
something  old-fashioned,  you  know  —  something  in 
brass.  You  haven't  any  candlesticks  or  snuffer-trays  or 
andirons  or  even  bellows  with  brass  noses  ?  Anything 
in  brass,  you  know.  Even  a  warming-pan,  if  you  should 
have  one  that  you  didn't  use." 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "We  haven't  got 
anything  but  one  brass  candlestick  that  one  of  the 
Squire's  girls  give  me  last  housecleaning,  and  that's 
been  broke  and  sodered  up  again,  and  broke  again." 

"  Oh,  let  us  see  it,"  I  cried.  "  Do  you  think  it 
would  do  for  a  birthday  present  ?" 

"  Depends  upon  what  kind  of  a  birthday  it  was ;" 
returned  the  woman. 

"  If  it  wasn't  much  of  a  birthday,  do  you  think  it 
would  do  ?"  said  the  tutor,  insinuatingly. 

"  Might." 

"  Please  bring  it,"  I  cried.  The  woman  brought  it, 
while  the  children  in  the  cart  tittered,  and  the  children 
by  the  gate  gazed,  open-mouthed.  She  certainly  had 


92  IN    KE    BRASS. 

not  undervalued  it.  It  was  very  lame  and  battered, 
but  I  bargained  for  it,  and  carried  it  ofE  at  twenty-five 
cents.  We  all  agreed  it  was  best  to  go  back  to  the 
Squire's,  and  wait  till  some  one  appeared  at  a  door  or 
window,  whose  attention  could  be  arrested,  and  then 
appeal  to  some  other  sense  than  that  of  hearing. 

"  I'm  prepared  to  camp  out  in  the  front  yard,"  said 
Mr.  Macnally.  "Maidy  and  I  can  live  on  very  little. 
We  could  fast  for  a  week  without  much  inconvenience. 
In  that  time,  some  one  would,  no  doubt,  come  to  the 
window." 

We  went  back,  and  again  drove  up  to  the  rear  door 
of  the  house.  Ned,  for  form's  sake,  got  out  and  began 
to  knock  a  little,  faintly.  Yery  promptly  the  door  was 
opened,  and  a  tall,  grizzled  old  man  appeared  in  the 
door-way.  Ned  was  so  taken  aback  he  could  not  speak, 
and  the  old  man  looked  inquiringly  from  one  to  the 
other  of  us.  He  was  so  dignified  and  well-mannered 
that  we^-were  quite  unnerved. 

"  This  is  brazen,  indeed,"  said  the  tutor,  low,  while 
Ned  stammered,  something,  helplessly.  "  I  should  as 
soon  think  of  asking  the  colonel  to  sell  me  his  water- 
wheel,  or  his  favorite  calf." 

"  Somebody  must  help  him,"  I  murmured ;  and  then, 
in  despair,  leaning  forward,  I  said  quite  loud : 

"  Oh,  please,  sir,  if  you  will  excuse  us  for  troubling 
yon — but  we're  greatly  in  need  of  a  fender  for  a  Frank 
lin  stove.  Somebody  told  us  you  had  some  old  things 
of  that  kind,  and  we  took  the  liberty  of  coming." 

He  came  forward  and  said  he  should  be  very  glad 
to  oblige  us ;  he  thought  perhaps  he  had  such  a  thing  in 
the  garret ;  he  would  go  and  look.  The  girls,  he  said, 
were  a  little  hard  of  hearing,  but  perhaps  we'd  come 


IN    EE    BE  ASS.  93 

inside  and  wait.  We  declined  this  offer,  and  lie  turned 
into  the  house,  followed  by  Ned,  who  did  not  think  it 
would  be  polite  for  everybody  to  say  no.  The  host 
showed  him  into  a  sitting-room,  and  then  closing  the  door, 
went  up  into  the  attic  for  the  fender.  The  sitting-room 
was  not  empty  ;  an  elderly  woman,  with  a  cap  on,  sat 
darning  stockings  by  a  stove.  When,  at  last,  she  saw  Ned, 
she  got  up  and  apologized,  in  a  very  low  voice,  and  said 
she  was  a  little  hard  of  hearing,  and  sat  down  again  to  her 
work.  She  looked  up  at  him  occasionally  in  a  pleasant 
manner.  Ned  felt  restless,  and  as  if  it  weren't  very 
civil  not  to  be  making  a  little  conversation  with  her, 
when  she  looked  so  pleasant.  He  was  embarrassed,  and 
overlooking  the  fact  that  she  couldn't  hear  him,  the  next 
time  he  caught  her  eye,  he  said,  in  reference  to  a  mos 
quito-bar  at  the  window,  which  he  had  been  looking  at : 
"  Are  you  much  troubled  with  insects  here  ?" 

She  looked  perplexed,  got  up  and  came  softly  to 
him,  and  said  very  low :  "  I'm  a  little  hard  of  hear 
ing,"  and  put  the  left  side  of  her  cap  quite  near  his 
mouth. 

Ned  regretted  very  much  that  he  had  looked  at  the 
mosquito-bar,  or  had  caught  her  eye ;  but  he  bravely 
repeated  his  insipid  question,  and  repeated  it  again ; 
but  all  without  effect.  She  shook  her  head  softly,  and 
said  she  must  go  and  call  her  sister  Betsey — she  couldn't 
understand. 

While  she  was  gone  out  of  the  room,  Ned  almost 
resolved  he  would  go  out  and  get  into  the  cart,  and 
leave  it  to  somebody  else  to  do  the  shouting — but  he 
was  still  afraid  of  being  impolite,  and  stood  his  ground, 
though  redder  in  the  face  than  was  usual  with  him. 

Presently  the  old  woman  returned,  accompanied  by 


94  IN    KB    BRASS. 

her  sister.  This  one  was  shorter  and  broader  than  the 
other,  and  had  a  large  hooked  nose,  with  which  she 
took  snuff. 

"  Abby  is  a  little  hard  of  hearing,"  she  said,  below 
her  breath.  "She  didn't  quite  understand;  what  was 
it  you  was  saying  '?"  And  she  also  put  her  ear  very 
close  up  to  his  face. 

"  I  only  said,  are  you  much  troubled  with  insects 
here  2" 

She  indicated  by  a  nearer  approach  to  his  mouth 
and  a  questioning  motion  that  she  wanted  it  repeated 
once  again. 

He  repeated  it  once,  twice ;  she  shook  her  head. 
Abby,  looking  on  anxiously,  shook  hers  too. 

"  I  can't  quite  catch  it,"  she  said.  u  I  must  go  and 
call  my  sister  Phoebe." 

So  she  bustled  out,  and  Miss  Abby  stood  by,  per 
plexed  and  watchful.  If  she  hadn't  been  there,  there 
is  no  question  that  he  would  have  escaped  by  the  front 
door.  But  she  stood  quite  close  to  him,  with  her 
troubled  old  eyes  on  his  face. 

"  It's  very  inconvenient,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  very  inconvenient,  being  hard  of  hearing." 

"  It  is,  very,"  groaned  Ned ;  but  he  wouldn't  be 
entrapped  into  saying  anything  more. 

By  the  time  Miss  Betsy  returned,  accompanied  by 
Miss  Phcebe,  the  beads  stood  on  Ned's  forehead.  There 
was  such  a  hoarseness  in  his  voice  that  no  wonder  Miss 
Phoebe  had  to  ask  him  to  repeat  the  hideous  formula 
over  and  again.  She  was  quite  young,  compared  with 
her  sisters,  not  more  than  sixty-h've,  with  a  very  insinu 
ating  smile,  and  quite  a  color  on  her  cheeks.  She  evi- 


IN    KE    BRASS.  95 

dently  was  less  deaf  than  they,  for  she  got  a  word  at 
last. 

"Troubled?"  she  said.  "  Just  try  again.  Troubled? 
our  dogs  have  got  at  your  sheep  ?  No !  Something 
about  the  mowing  machine,  perhaps  ?  No  !  Just  say 
it  once  more,  if  you  please  !" 

The  two  others  stood  close  up  to  them,  with  wrinkled 
faces  full  of  solicitude.  Every  time  Miss  Phoebe  shook 
her  head,  indicating  failure,  Miss  Abby  and  Miss  Betsey 
shook  theirs  in  sympathy.  It  was  a  dreadful  situation. 
Ned  groaned  and  glanced  despairingly  around,  and 
gathered  himself  up,  and  gave  one  final  shout.  It 
seemed  to  him  the  words  did  not  mean  anything ;  lie 
hated  them  ;  he  wrould  have  liked  to  have  dug  them  out 
of  the  dictionary ;  it  was  like  a  night-mare. 

"  Are  you  much  troubled  with  insects  here  ?"  lie 
put  his  mouth  quite  up  against  her  yellow  old  car,  he 
roared,  bellowed,  thundered  the  words  into  it.  "  I 
only  said,  '  Are  you  much  troubled  with  insects  here  ?'  " 

Miss  Phoebe  heard ;  she  dropped  off  from  him,  for 
she  had  laid  her  hand  upon  his  sleeve,  and  said  "  Oh  !" 
in  a  tone  of  mingled  contempt,  relief  and  incredulity. 
She  repeated  it  to  Miss  Betsy,  who  said  "  Oh  1"  too,  in 
a  tone  expressing  exactly  the  same  feelings,  perhaps  the 
contempt  a  little  accentuated.  Then  it  was  repeated 
to  Miss  Abby,  whose  "  Oh  !"  was  more  contemptuous, 
relieved  and  skeptical  than  her  sister's,  as  her  suspense 
and  anxiety  had  been  of  longer  duration.  She  turned 
her  back  to  him  and  picked  up  her  darning,  and  sat 
down  almost  with  a  jerk. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  began  Ned,  hot  and  wretched  ; 
but  when  Miss  Phoebe  projected  her  ear  at  him,  he 
turned  and  ned.  When  he  got  outside,  he  found  us 


96  IN    EE    BRASS. 

embarrassed  with  our  riches.  A  fender  barricaded  his 
way  into  the  cart ;  a  pair  of  andirons  occupied  his  seat. 
I  held  a  shovel  and  tongs,  and  Mr.  Macnally  had  a 
warming-pan  over  his  shoulder,  mounted  very  high. 
The  polite  old  Squire  (whose  hearing  was  perfect)  was 
trying  to  find  a  place  for  a  spinning-wheel  between 
Naomi  and  Maidy.  Naomi  had  a  brass  candlestick  in 
each  hand,  and  looked  a  little  anxious  for  her  personal 
safety. 

"  It'll  ride  there,"  said  the  farmer. 

"But  where'll  I  ride?"  muttered  Ned,  anxious  for 
unspoken  reasons  to  get  in. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Ned  ?"  cried  Naomi.  He 
said  something  that  sounded  like  "  Hold  your  tongue, 
can't  you  ?"  but  it  wasn't  loud  enough  for  anybody  to 
be  sure,  and  left  ground  to  hope  that  lie  was  not  such 
a  brute. 

"  I  hope  you'll  call  again,"  said  the  Squire,  with 
mild  politeness,  bowing  us  off. 

"  I  know  there's  some  of  us  that  won't,"  muttered 
Ned ;  but  it  was  not  till  we  got  down  the  hill  and  out 
of  sight  that  we  heard  his  reasons  for  not  wanting  to. 
When  we  drove  through  the  village  with  our  spoils,  we 
were  the  objects  of  much  friendly  comment.  I  think 
no  more  absolute  nonsense  was  ever  talked  than  during 
that  last  two  miles,  and  no  more  riotous  laughter  ever 
heard.  We  were  in  what  the  country  people  call  a 
"  gale,"  and  none  of  us  had  a  right  to  be  over  sixteen. 
When  we  reached  the  gate  of  the  cottage  Rex  flew  out 
at  us  furiously,  and  refused  to  recogaize  us. 

"  If  I  be  I,  as  I  do  hope  I  be, 
I've  a  little  dog  at  home,  and  he'll  know  me," 


IN    RE    BRASS.  97 

said  the  tutor,  as  he  got  out,  trying,  with  the  butt  end  of 
the  warming-pan,  to  protect  his  knickerbockers  from 
the  infuriated  little  poodle.  While  the  others  were  un 
loading  my  share  of  the  plunder,  I  caught  the  dog  up 
and  ran  to  incarcerate  him  in  the  dining-room.  Naomi 
followed  me  up  the  balcony  steps  and  into  the  parlor 
with  the  candlesticks. 

"  Here  are  all  three,"  she  eaid,  "  the  broken  one  and 
all." 

"  Oh,  that  reminds  me,  I  want  you  all  to  come  and 
take  tea  with  me  to-night,  you  and  Ned  and  Mr.  Mac- 
nally,  to  celebrate  the  birthday,  you  know.  Here's 
Baby,  just  awake,  bless  her  little  heart;  I  can't  go 
down  again  to  tell  them,  for  I've  got  to  take  her.  Re 
member,  yoiT  must  come  at  half  past  six  o'clock." 

Naomi  screamed  with  delight,  and  ran  headlong 
down  the  steps  of  the  balcony,  and  didn't  stop  till  she 
got  outside  the  gate. 

"  Mr.  Macnally,  Mr.  Macnally,  listen !"  she  cried. 
"  I've  got  something  to  tell  you.  A  message,  hear — 

I  was  holding  Baby,  by  the  parlor  window,  quite 
out  of  sight  myself.  Mr.  Macnally  was  standing  out 
by  the  edge  of  the  road,  and  Naomi  at  the  gate.  He 
dropped  the  wanning- pan,  and  a  pair  of  andirons  which 
he  was  putting  in  the  cart,  and  put  himself  in  an  atti 
tude  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  gazed  at  Naomi, 
waiting  for  the  message. 

"  We  are  invited,"  she  said  impressively,  "  invited 
here  to  take  tea  to-night,  to  celebrate  your  birthday. 
Do  you  understand  ? " 

He  made  a  somersault,  and  came  up  on  his  feet, 
just  before  Naomi,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  in 
the  same  attitude  of  abandoned  devotion.  He  said 


98  IN    RE    BRASS. 

• 

something  which  I  did  not  catch,  and  then  Xaoini 
cried,  "  Well,  I'll  go  and  tell  her." 

She  came  and  shouted  up  the  stairs,  "  We're  all  com 
ing  ;  I've  got  to  go  now,  so  good-bye." 

I  watched  them  drive  off,  and  said  to  myself  "  The 
mystery  is  solved.  The  trapeze  /" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

KEEPING  A  BIRTHDAY. 

"Alas,  the  happy  day  !  the  foolish  day  I 
Alas,  the  sweet  time,  too  soon  passed  away  1" 

William  Morris. 

" the  sense 

Of  exile  from  Hope's  happy  realm  grew  less, 
And  thoughts  of  childish  peace,  he  knew  not  whence, 

Thronged  round  his  heart  with  many  an  old  caress." 

Lowell. 

OPHIA,  the  children  from  the  other  house  are 
coming  to  tea. 

"  What,  that  long-legged  boy  ?" 

"  Why,  he's  long  generally.  I  don't  see  anything 
out  of  proportion  in  his  legs.  What  can  we  have  for 
tea  ?  They  have  such  lots  of  things  for  tea  down 
there,  I  don't  know  what  they'll  think  of  ours." 

This  assured  us  a  good  tea.  I  could  not  confess  to 
her  that  the  tutor  was  coming,  for  I  knew  she  actively 
detested  him,  but  I  smuggled  an  extra  plate  and  cup 
and  saucer  on  the  table  when  it  was  time  for  them  to 
come,  and  I  left  it  for  her  to  suppose  that  his  coming 
was  unpremeditated,  and  that  he  had  been  invited  after 
he  came  in,  as  was  no  more  than  civil.  Notwithstand 
ing  her  disgust  and  anger  at  his  presence  and  at  my 
selfish  conduct  of  the  morning,  she  did  not  manage  to 
depress  us  very  much.  We  had  a  very  merry  little  tea, 

[99] 


100  KEEPING     A    BIRTHDAY. 

with  Maidy  and  Baby  both  at  table,  and  Ned  enough  at 
home  to  eat  as  much  as  he  wanted.  After  tea  we  had 
the  pleasure  of  building  a  fresh  tire  in  the  Franklin  and 
of  trying  the  new  fender. 

"  '  Four  feet  on  a  fender,'  "  said  Ned,  leaning  back 
in  a  low  chair  and  putting  a  pair  of  very  dusty  shoes 
upon  it. 

"  What's  the  objection  to  hind  feet  ?"  said  Naomi, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  rug  and  holding  Rex,  and  she 
put  his  hind  paws  up  beside  the  dusty  shoes. 

"  What's  the  use  of  always  trying  to  be  so  deadly 
clever?"  snarled  Ned,  giving  the  dog  a  push  with  his 
foot. 

"  It's  you  who  were  trying,"  said  Naomi,  enfolding 
the  dog  in  a  motherly  embrace. 

"  Let  dogs  delight,"  said  the  tutor.  "  Celebrate  my 
birthday  by  an  absence  of  rows  to-night." 

"  Talking  of  birthdays  ;  where's  the  candlestick  ? 
Maidy,  go  and  fetch  it.  I  left  it  on  the  table  in  the 
hall. 

Maidy  brought  it.  "  I  tried  to  clean  it,"  I  said, 
"  but  it  hasn't  a  great  luster." 

"It  puts  my  eyes  out,"  said  the  tutor,  shading 
them. 

"  That  horrid  break,"  I  said,  "  and  the  patching  up. 
I  wish  I  had  a  ribbon  that  I  could  tie  around  it.  Here's 
one  on  my  fan.  I'll  have  to  spare  you  that." 

There  was  a  bit  of  lilac  ribbon  by  which  my  fan 
hung  from  my  belt,  so  I  loosened  it  and  tied  it  round 
the  candlestick  in  a  pretty  knot,  and  hid  the  defacing 
sodering,  and  all  that ;  then  we  set  it  on  the  mantel 
piece  and  lavished  a  great  deal  of  admiration  on  it. 
The  children  were  rolling  about  on  the  rug  with  Rex. 


KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY.  101 

]S"ed  had  withdrawn  his  dusty  shoes  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  and  was  looking  over  some  pictures  at  the 
lamp.  Mr.  Macnally  put  more  wood  on  the  tire,  and 
opened  the  doors  and  windows,  for  it  was  growing 
warm.  Naomi  started  up  from  the  rug. 

"  Let's  play  cartoons,  or  consequences,  or  something, 
won't  you  ?  Mr.  Macnally  likes  games ;  I  assure  you 
that  he  does." 

"  And  his  taste  must  be  consulted  on  at  least  one 
day  in  the  year." 

"  "Well,  but  you  know  you  like  it ;  you've  often  said 
you  did.  We  only  want  some  paper  and  some  pencils  ; 
please,  dear  hostess,  and  we'll  tell  you  how." 

We  had  altogether  a  very  jolly  evening ;  Naomi 
and  Ned  were  both  clever  with  'their  pencils,  and  as  to 
the  tutor,  I  abandoned  the  trapeze  theory  and  concluded 
he  was  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy,  collecting  in 
disguise  studies  for  the  next  year's  exhibition.  I  have 
those  cartoons  yet,  yellowed,  dusty.  I  do  not  laugh 
when  1  look  at  them  now,  alas  !  .  .  . 

The  "gale"  had  expended  itself;  we  could  not 
laugh  so  many  hours  consecutively.  The  children  were 
sleepy,  and  Naomi  and  I  carried  them  off  to  Sophia  to 
be  put  to  bed.  Nothing  would  have  ii;duced  Sophia 
to  come  into  the  room,  I  am  sure.  When  we  came 
back  we  found  Ned  had  settled  himself  into  a  book, 
and  the  tutor  was  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  man 
tel-piece  gazing  into  the  tire.  I  sat  down  in  a  low  chair 
and  Naomi  knelt  down  on  the  rug  and  put  her  pretty 
yellow  head  against  my  shoulder. 

"  What  a  nice  day  we've  had !  I  like  holidays. 
When  does  your  birthday  come  ? " 


102  KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY. 

"  Oh,  Naomi,  don't  ask  me.  I  don't  want  to  remember 
my  birthday.  I  don't  keep  it  any  more." 

I  tried  to  speak  lightly,  but  a  quick  expression  of 
pain  contracted  my  face.  It  was  three  years  since  I 
had  kept  my  birthday  with  anything  but  tears  and  bit 
ter  recollections.  All  the  joy  and  merriment  of  this 
day  seemed  frightful  to  me  at  that  reminiscence.  Had 
I  grown  childish ;  had  I  lost  all  sense  of  my  bereave 
ment  in  this  sudden  lightening  of  heart?  No  wonder 
Sophia  despised  me  and  avoided  me ;  I  hardly  knew 
myself.  I  could  scarcely  keep  back  my  tears;  I 
trembled  and  was  pale.  I  had  an  impulse  to  go  into 
the  dark  room  where  the  children  slept  and  take  them 
in  my  arms,  and  cry  over  them  and  ask  them  to  forgive 
me  for  having  forgotten  for  so  many  careless  hours. 

Naomi  went  on  prattling;  Mr.  Macnally  walked 
over  to  where  Ned'sat  at  his  book,  and  talked  with  him 
about  it.  Naomi's  questions  were  torture — Where  were 
you  your  last  birthday,  where  were  you  before  ?  Did 
you  use  to  get  many  presents?  Was  that  little  tur 
quoise  ring  you  always  wear  one  of  your  birthday  pres 
ents?  It  was  the  prettiest  little  ring.  How  many 
years  since  the  birthday  that  you  got  it  ?  There  were 
two  stones  that  were  turning  just  a  little  green  ;  it 
must  be  a  good  while  that  you  have  had  it  on.  How 
long  do  you  think  ?  What  does  it  mean  when  a  tur 
quoise  turns  green  ?  Does  it  mean  you  have  forgotten 
about  the  person  that  gave  it  to  you,  or  that  they  have 
forgotten  about  you  ? 

"Naomi,"  said  the  tutor,  a  little  quickly,  "Ned's 
found  a  picture  of  that  basket-fish  that  washed  up  on 
the  beach  the  other  day.  Come  and  look  at  it." 


KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY.  103 

"  In  a  minute,"  said  Naomi  pensively ;  "  I'm  looking 
at  some  rings.  Do  you  believe — " 

Naomi  loved  sentiment  more  than  she  loved  natural 
history ;  she  wouldn't  have  made  the  exchange  so 
promptly  as  she  did,  if  the  tutor's  voice  had  not  had 
a  tinge  of  authority  in  it  which  she  and  Ned  knew 
Letter  than  to  disregard. 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  you  to  come  now,  while  I  am  ex 
plaining  it  to  Ned.  You  bothered  me  enough  about  it 
when  you  found  it,  when  I  hadn't  any  illustration  of  it." 

He  made  the  explanation  a  tolerably  long  one,  and 
I  had  time  to  recover  a  little  from  my  agitation.  It 
was  probably  the  reaction  from  a  long  day  of  excite 
ment,  and  the  great  change  from  my  ordinary  days, 
and  my  nerves  were  not  yet  as  strong  as  I  supposed 
them.  When  Naomi  made  a  move  to  come  back  to 
the  fire,  Mr.  Macnally  took  out  his  watch,  and  she  un 
derstood,  from  his  gesture,  that  she  must  go  and  get 
ready  to  go  home.  Even  this  little  sympathetic  help, 
and  the  sense  of  being  shielded  from  what  was  really 
such  a  trifle,  unnerved  me.  I  must  have  cried  if  they 
hadn't  gone  without  many  more  words,  which  happily 
they  did.  But  a  good  night's  sleep  restored  my  nerves, 
and  a  day  or  two  brought  me  back  to  the  common-sense 
basis  of  being  happy  when  there  was  so  much  to  be 
happy  about. 

From  that  time,  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be  happy 
about.  The  returning  tide  of  health,  the  absence  of 
care,  the  friendship  of  good  people,  the  companion 
ship  of  quick  and  clever  minds,  the  exhilaration  of  an 
unrivalled  air,  the  stimulant  of  beautiful  scenery,  formed 
a  pretty  good  foundation  for  a  happy  summer.  It  was 
not  very  gradual,  the  intimacy  established  between  the 


104  KEEPING     A    BIRTHDAY. 

cottage  and  the  big  house.  We  were  not  long  in  find 
ing  out  that  a  day  was  incomplete  when  there  were  no 
hours  spent  in  common.  Two  days  in  the  week  I  read 
German  with  Mrs.  Emlyn.  I  was  the  most  indifferent 
German  scholar  in  one  sense,  but  no  one  could  read 
with  her,  and  be  indifferent  in  interest.  Her  mind 
was  so  quick  and  her  love  for  language  so  enthusiastic, 
she  inspired  even  the  dullest  and  most  timid.  It  was 
like  being  pushed  along  by  a  swift  skater,  the  exhilaration 
made  one  forget  the  ignominy  of  not  being  able  to  do  it 
one's  self.  My  enjoyment  gave  her  pleasure  and 
made  her  pardon  my  inefficiency  and  want  of  training. 
I  was  a  favorite  with  the  colonel,  who  often  took 
me  with  him  in  long  drives  about  the  country.  Mrs. 
Emlyn  feared  horses,  and  hated  driving,  and  when 
Naomi  was  in  school  and  could  not  go  with  him,  he 
was  always  glad  to  come  for  me.  In  the  afternoon, 
when  the  children  and  Mr.  Macnally  were  free,  we 
often  went  on  .excursions,  long  sails  on  the  bay,  crab 
bing  or  fishing  expeditions,  walks  when  it  was  cool,  or 
more  often  drives  to  distant  villages,  which  did  not  end 
till  after  dark ;  and  when  there  was  no  question  where  I 
went  to  take  my  tea.  I  had  long  ceased  to  care  by  which 
door  I  entered  the  hospitable  house,  or  what  time  I  came, 
or  in  what  apparel.  There  was  a  high  chair  for  Maidy 
always  standing  in  the  dining-room  now ;  even  Baby 
had  her  private  establishment  in  that  generous  apart 
ment,  and  knew  under  what  table  to  look  for  her  box  of 
blocks  and  picture-books.  Rex  no  longer  barked  when 
at  home  the  tutor  came  up  the  balcony  stairs  three 
steps  at  a  time,  or  when  Ned  thundered  at  the  door  and 
shouted  "  Fenders !"  Naomi  could  pull  his  ears,  and 
Mrs.  Emlyn  tread  on  him  in  her  near-sightedness  with 


KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY.  105 

perfect  freedom.  He  understood  the  consolidation  of 
interests,  and  behaved  much  better  than  Sophia,  who 
would  not  allow  herself  to  be  drawn  into  the  vortex  of 
intimacy  which  had  engulfed  her  betters.  I  am  sure 
she  could  not  have  helped  being  gratified  with  the  im 
proved  health  of  the  children,  nor  with  her  own  ex 
emption  from  care  and  labor ;  but  she  never  acknowl 
edged  it,  nor  ever  ceased  to  fret  for  the  time  when  we 
should  leave  this  mouldy  shanty  and  go  back  to  the  city. 
I  remember  particularly  the  effect  one  of  these 
tirades  had  upon  me.  It  was  a  lovely  July  morning, 
warmer  than  most  days  in  that  bracing  climate.  A 
strong  breeze  from  the  sea  tempered  the  heat  of  the 
sun.  I  was  on  the  balcony  with  my  work,  Mr.  Mac- 
nally  was  sitting  in  the  hammock,  with  his  gun  leaning 
against  the  railing,  and  a  game-bag  over  his  shoulder ; 
Naomi  was  playing  with  the  children  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps  ;  Ned  was  busy  loading  some  shells  on  the  horse 
block,  Ilex  was  lying  on  the  edge  of  my  dress,  newly 
washed,  and  white  and  fluffy,  with  a  blue  ribbon  on  his 
neck.  The  sunshine  fell  on  the  gray  floor  of  the 
balcony  through  the  leaves  of  the  trumpet-creeper,  and 
here  and  there  lighted  up  one  of  its  long  red  blossoms. 
The  roll  of  the  sea  sounded  far  off  and  dreamy ;  its 
blue  line  was  faintly  seen  across  the  green  and  level 
meadows.  The  children's  voices  were  a  happy  music 
in  my  ears.  The  wind  that  kissed  my  cheek  was  soft 
as  velvet.  I  leaned  back  in  the  low  chair  in  which  I 
sat,  and  drew  a  long  breath  of  content.  At  that 
moment  in  the  doorway  appeared  the  spare  figure  of 
my  faithful  Sophia,  to  present  to  me  the  other  side 

of  life. 

Sophia  was  about  middle  height,  spare  of  flesh,  and 

5* 


106  KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY. 

quick  of  movement.  Her  complexion  was  dark,  her 
eyes  of  a  dull  black,  but  very  penetrating.  I  always 
felt  as  if  I  had  done  something  wrong  when  I  met 
them,  not  that  she  always  meant  to  be  accusing  me,  but 
there  was  something  in  them  that  stirred  an  uncom 
fortable  sensation  in  my  whole  being,  which  I  wrongly 
perhaps,  attributed  to  the  workings  of  conscience.  She 
had  an  uncomfortable  power  over  me,  of  which  she  was 
quite  unconscious.  Whether  it  were  her  stronger  will, 
or  some  psychological  influence  that  we  have  not  yet 
got  a  name  for,  she  could  at  any  time,  when  my  health 
was  not  at  its  best,  make  me  do  anything  that  she 
chose.  And  even  when  I  was  in  my  best  estate,  she 
could  throw  a  blighting  shadow  over  very  happy  hours. 
My  face  clouded  as  soon  as  I  saw  her'  standing  in  the 
door-way,  and  found  her  eyes  fixed  on  me. 

Sophia  was  rather  a  good-looking  woman.  I  often 
wondered  whether,  to  other  people,  she  was  not  quite 
pleasant  to  look  at.  The  children  loved  her,  and  they 
would  not  certainly  have  loved  her  if  she  had  not  been 
pleasing  to  them.  I  fear  it  was  with  me  an  antagonism 
of  temperament  that  put  us  both  at  our  worst.  Her 
black  hair  was  slightly  mixed  with  white,  but  she  wore 
it  neatly,  and  she  was  always  dressed  rather  above  her 
station,  though  with  simplicity.  Her  forehead  was  low 
and  her  hair  grew  off  from  it  in  a  cowlick,  which  pre 
vented  it  from  being  parted  in  the  middle.  Her  nos 
trils  were  thin,  and  moved  with  every  breath  and  every 
emotion ;  indeed,  they  had  much  more  active  expression 
than  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  Sophia,  what  is  it  ? "  I  said,  for  she  stood 
without  speaking. 

It  was  no  matter,  she  had  thought  I  was  alone. 


KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY.  107 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Hacnally  will  excuse  us.  Is  anything 
wrong?" 

"  Nothing  but  these,"  she  said,  bringing  forward 
two  or  three  pairs  of  the  children's  shoes,  covered 
heavily  with  green  and  yellow  mould. 

"  Oh !  why  don't  you  put  them  in  the  sun  to  dry. 
It  was  a  pity  to  have  shut  them  up." 

*'  They  have  only  been  two  days  in  the  nursery 
closet.  And  it  is  about  that  that  I  came  to  speak  to  you. 
That  room's  not  fit  for  the  children  to  sleep  in.  The 
paper's  peeling  from  the  walls.  I've  taken  up  the  carpet 
and  hung  it  in  the  sun  three  times  this  summer,  and  yet 
it's  always  cold  when  you  tread  on  it.  I  never  saw  any 
thing  but  a  cellar  that  compared  to  that  room  for 
dampness." 

"  It  seems  to  agree  with  them  particularly  well  how 
ever,  they've  never  been  so  well  in  all  their  lives  before." 

"  You'll  have  to  speak  to  Colonel  Emlyn  to  have 
the  chimney  opened,  if  we  stay  here  till  the  end  of 
August.  I  wouldn't  undertake  to  bring  baby  through 
those  damp  August  rains  without  afire  to  dress  her  by." 

"  The  poor  colonel !  He  has  spent  the  rent  twice  over 
on  the  kitchen  floor  and  the  pump  and  the  roof  of  the 
wing ;  I  shouldn't  have  the  face  to  ask  him  about  the 
nursery  chimney,  Sophia." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Sophia,  with  nostrils  flaring. 

"  You  can  bring  her  into  my  room  to  sleep,"  I  said, 
"  and  dress  her  there.  It  is  always  warm  and  comfor 
table." 

"  About  these  shoes.  Are  you  going  to  have  them 
half-soled  ?  If  we  stay  here  six  weeks  longer,  they  will 
just  about  last  them  through ;  but  something  must  be 
done  ;  you  can't  get  anything  to  fit  them  here." 


108  KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY. 

"  Then  can't  we  send  to  town  ?" 

"  For  six  weeks  ? — that  wouldn't  be  worth  while." 

She  gave  me  a  searching  look.  I  felt  the  little  shoes 
were  only  an  excuse  to  fret  me  ;  she  knew  much  rnoro 
about  the  nursery  properties  than  I,  and  never  consult 
ed  me  but  for  purposes  of  her  own. 

"  I'll  take  them  to  the  shoemaker  in  the  village  to  be 
mended,"  I  said,  and  took  up  my  sewing.  Mr.  Macnally 
met  my  eyes  as  I  looked  up  in  a  moment  to  assure 
myself  that  she  was  gone.  They  asked  me  a  question 
so  plainly,  that  I  answered  involuntarily. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  I  owe  her  everything ;  and  if  I  didn't, 
I  shouldn't  dare  to  say  a  word.  What  should  I  be, 
left  without  her  ?  People  must  pay  the  penalty  of  be 
ing  inefficient." 

"  You're  not  going  to  let  her  take  you  away  from 
here  in  six  weeks?"  he  said. 

"  Well,  if  she  does,  she  may  prepare  to  bury  me,  for 
if  I  go  back  to  that  horrible  city  and  live  the  life  I 
have  been  living  there  I  shall  die.  We  won't  talk  of  it," 
and  I  gave  a  sort  of  shudder. 

"  But  the  first  of  September ;  it  is  such  tyranny ;" 
he  repeated. 

"  I  shall  die  ;  that  will  be  all,"  I  said. 

"  We  shall  all  have  resort  to  the  happy  dispatch," 
he  said,  getting  up,  and  lifting  his  gun  to  go.  "  Have 
you  any  idea,''  he  added,  pausing  as  if  irresolute,  and, 
to  occupy  the  irresolute  moment,  bending  back  the 
barrel  of  his  gun  and  looking  into  it,  "have  you  any 
idea  how  much  you  yield  to  this  sort  of  pressure? 
I  have  often  wondered." 

"I  suppose  everybody  thinks  me  weak,"  I  said, 


KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY.  109 

biting  my  lips,  and  pushing  the  needle  in  and  out  of 
my  work,  aimlessly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  everybody  thinks ;  and  I  don't 
suppose  you  mind  wnat  I  think." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  mind  ?  I  don't  know  so  many 
people." 

"  "Well,  in  a  very  small  world  I  suppose  I  might 
count  for  one,"  he  answered,  with  a  compression  of  the 
lips,  perhaps  from  the  effort  of  snapping  the  gun  back 
into  its  place,  still  standing  half  turned  from  me. 

"  Oh,  you  count  for  a  great  deal  more  than  one,  in 
my  world.  You  would  be  lecturing  me,  if  you  knew 
how  much  more.  You  ought  always  to  tell  me  what 
you  think,  if  it  isn't  too  bad." 

"  My  thoughts  always  honor  you,"  he  said,  with  a 
sudden  strange  sincerity,  more  startling  from  the  con 
trast  to  his  ordinary  gayety  of  manner.  This  time  he 
turned  quite  away,  and,  stooping  to  pick  up  his  cap 
which  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  he  went  towards  the 
steps.  We  were  on  the  sort  of  terms  when  goings  and 
comings  were  not  necessarily  attended  with  much 
explanation.  We  should  probably  meet  two  or  three 
times  again  to-day  ;  so  while  he  went  down  the  steps,  I 
silently  resumed  my  sewing,  and  pondered  deeply  on 
the  few  words  that  had  escaped  him,  beginning  with 
the  question,  Had  I  any  idea  how  much  I  yielded  to  the 
influence  of  Sophia  ?  It  was  very  unusual  for  him  to 
say  things  like  this.  I  could  scarcely  remember  when 
he  had  said  anything  so  personal  before.  He  needn't 
have  told  me  all  his  thoughts  honored  me,  for  I  knew 
it.  He  had  put  me  on  a  very  high  pedestal,  I  felt. 
With  all  our  intimate  freedom  of  intercourse,  there 
was  always  a  silence  about  myself,  that  was  a  sort  of 


110  KEEPING    A    BIRTHDAY. 

homage  I  vaguely  liked.  He  could  listen ;  I  was 
almost  capriciously  confidential  sometimes,  for  he  was  a 
person  who  inspired  you  to  talk  about  yourself ;  but  he 
did  not  respond  ;  he  did  not  ask  me  questions,  he  did 
not  lead  me  further  by  any  words.  I  felt  a  great  lik 
ing  for  him,  a  great  interest  in  him.  He  was  cleverer 
than  any  one  I  had  ever  met  before  ;  he  was  the  gayest, 
brightest  element  that  had  ever  come  into  my  experi 
ence.  Delightful  as  the  life  was  at  Happy-go-lucky, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  it  was  he  who  gave  to 
it  its  greatest  charm.  In  some  ways  of  looking  at  him, 
he  seemed  the  embodiment  of  youth ;  in  others,  there 
was  a  man's  intensity  and  reticence.  1  sat  with  my  eyes 
bn  my  work,  when  Naomi  called  up  to  me : 

"  Aunt  Penelope  said  you  were  to  come  to  tea  to 
night.  Did  Mr.  Macnally  tell  you  ?" 

"No.     Why  to-night  especially  ?" 

"  Somebody  is  coming  up  from  town,  who,  I  can't 
remember.  Mr.  Macnally,  what's  the  name  of  the 
company  that's  coming  up  to-night  ?" 

But  Mr.  Macnally  and  Ned  were  already  off,  out  of 
hearing.  It  was  Saturday,  and  Ned  was  very  jealous 
of  infringements  of  his  holiday.  His  tutor  had  a  sort 
of  conscientiousness  about  him  that  one  could  not  help 
respecting.  He  probably  hated  to  go  tramping  off  in  the 
sun ;  but  the  care  of  the  boy  never  seemed  out  of  his 
mind. 

"  I'm  paid  for  it,"  he  said  once,  when  I  reproached 
him  with  leaving  us.  He  had  not  been  bitter  about  it, 
rather  jolly,  looking  back  and  saying  from  over  his 
gun: 

"  My  own  convenience  counts  as  nil: 
It  is  my  duty,  and  I  will." 


CHAPTER  X. 

EN   GKANDE  TENUE. 

"For  innocence  hath  a  privilege  in  her 
To  dignify  arch  jests  and  laughing  eyes." 

As  You  Lilce  it. 

O  OPIIIA'S  unhappy  jealousy  of  the  other  house  did 
^  not  prevent  her  desiring  me  to  appear  my  best 
when  I  went  there,  and  though  she  often  looked  as  if 
she  were  capable  of  powdering  the  peaches  with  arse* 
nic,  she  was  always  careful  that  everything  should  be  in 
the  best  order,  when  they  came  to  us.  I  have  known 
her  to  work  a  whole  day  to  prepare  a  good  tea  for 
them,  when  it  seemed  as  if  she  hated  every  member  of 
the  family  with  bitterness  enough  to  kill  them.  That 
afternoon,  therefore,  it  did  not  surprise  me  to  find,  that, 
having  overheard  the  invitation  Naomi  gave  me  from 
her  aunt,  she  had  spent  an  hour  pressing  out  a  pretty 
white  muslin  dress  that  had  been  in  a  trunk  all  summer, 
and  which  was  the  work  of  her  own  hands  in  the  early 
spring,  when  we  had  first  talked  of  coming  to  the  coun 
try.  She  had  wonderful  skill  in  such  matters,  and 
could  reduce  a  fashion-plate  to  fact  unerringly.  The 
afternoon  was  so  unusually  warm  that  I  had  slept,  and 
was  just  arousing  myself  to  the  necessity  of  getting 
ready  to  go,  when  she  entered  the  door  with  the  dress 
on  her  arm. 

"  Should  I  better  wear  that  ?"  I  said. 

[Ill] 


112  EX    GRANDE    TENTTE. 

"  I  don't  know  why  not,"  she  said,  putting  it  on  the 
bed.  "  It's  the  only  warm  day  we've  had,  and  we 
mayn't  have  another.  Goodness  knows,  if  I'd  thought 
we  were  coming  to  such  a  place  as  this,  I  shouldn't  have 
spent  a  week's  work  on  your  dress." 

''  It's  sweet,"  I  said,  touching  the  flounces  affection 
ately.  "  Come  in  by  and  by  and  fasten  it  on  for  me, 
won't  you?  I  can't  manage  that  handkerchief  alone." 

When  my  hair  was  dressed  and  I  was  ready  for  her, 
she  made  some  excuse  and  came  back  into  the  room, 
and  lifted  the  dress  over  my  head  and  fastened  it  on  for 
me.  It  was  picturesque  and  pretty,  though  very  sim 
ple,  made  with  a  short  round  skirt,  with  ruffles  at  the 
bottom,  a  round  waist,  sleeves  to  the  elbpws,  with  ruf 
fles,  and  a  handkerchief  of  the  same  material  folded 
across  the  bosom.  I  was  slender  and  tall  enough  to 
make  it  becoming ;  it  was  so  long  since  I  had  seen  my 
self  in  anything  that  was,  that  I  flushed  with  pleasure 
as  I  stepped  back,  and  saw  the  whole  effect.  Then  I 
glanced  guiltily  at  Sophia  to  see  if  she  had  seen  the 
flush,  but  she  hadn't ;  she  was  looking  with  an  expres 
sion  almost  of  satisfaction  at  the  details  of  the  dress. 
Then  she  went  away,  and  brought  me  a  pair  of  slippers 
from  the  trunk. 

"  They'll  be  dusty  by  the  time  I  get  there,"  I  said 
insincerely ;  it  really  gave  me  pleasure  to  think  of  put 
ting  them  on. 

"  You  can  see  yourself  what  a  figure  you'd  make, 
with  walking  boots,  in  that  short  dress.  Be  careful  and 
walk  in  the  path,  that's  all  that's  necessary." 

Then  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  began  to  criticise  the 
part  that  was  not  the  work  of  her  own  hands.  "  You've 
got  your  hair  too  high,"  she  said,  and  with  both  hands, 


EN    GEANDE    TENTJE.  113 

not  ungcntly,  she  pressed  down  the  light-brown  mass, 
till  the  contour  satisfied  her  correct  eye. 

"  You're  the  only  woman,"  she  said  involuntarily  as 
she  looked  at  me,  "that  I  ever  saw  that  could  spend 
twelve  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  in  the  hottest  sun  that 
blazes,  and  not  have  your  skin  the  worse  for  it.  Your 
throat's  just  as  white  as  your  shoulders,  and  your  face 
isn't  a  shade  darker  than  it  was  when  you  went  to 
school.  Baby's  going  to  have  a  skin  just  like  yours." 

"  And  poor  Maidy's  always  scorching  up  ;  her  very 
eyelids  burn." 

"  That's  like  her  father ;  she's  got  his  light-blue  eyes, 
and  that  same  sort  of  hair — but  Baby's  eyes  are  grayish- 
blue,  like  yours,  and  her  lashes  are  long  and  dark,  like 
yours.  She'll  be  the  prettiest,  if  she's  spared." 

Sophia  was  always  conscientious  about  that  clause : 
she  ended  every  allusion  to  the  children's  near  or  dis 
tant  future  with  a  proviso  about  their  being  spared,  as 
if  some  hideous  gardener  were  cultivating  the  earth, 
with  a  prejudice  against  children,  whom  he  weeded  out 
with  a  liberal  hand,  and  as  if  it  were  only  an  oversight 
when  one  here  or  there  was  "  spared." 

She  went  again  to  the  trunk,  and  came  back  with  a 
parasol.  "  You'd  better  use  that  thing  up,"  she  said, 
"it's  getting  yellow." 

I  had  forgotten  its  existence  ;  it  was  a  piece  of  my 
wedding  finery,  a  broad,  pongee  parasol,  with  a  deep 
ecru  lace  around  it. 

"  What  care  you  take  of  things,"  I  exclaimed.  I 
should  never  have  thought  of  it  again.  Ah,  Sophia, 
what  should  I  do  without  you  ? "  And  the  tears  swam 
in  my  eyes. 

"  Much  you  care,"  she  muttered,  going  out  of  the 


114  EN    GKANDE    TENUE. 

door.  "As  long  as  tilings  come  ready  to  your  hand, 
it's  little  odds  who  slaves  for  you." 

Probably  the  sight  of  me  again  in  girlish  dress, 
and  perhaps  the  words  I  had  just  said,  had  upset  her, 
and  she  took  refuge  in  her  habitual  rudeness,  but  I  was 
too  hurt  to  think  so  then. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  low  in  the  west  when  1 
started  for  Happy-go-lucky,  with  the  broad  white  para 
sol  over  my  head,  and  a  light  chip  hat  in  my  hand.  I 
had  broken  off  a  bunch  of  a  yellowish  pink  geranium  that 
grew  in  one  of  the  garden-beds,  and  fastened  it  where 
the  handkerchief  crossed  on  my  bosom.  There  had 
been  a  rain  the  night  before ;  it  was  not  dusty ;  the 
heat  of  the  day  was  over,  but  the  air  was  still  soft  and 
warm,  and  the  wind  had  fallen.  It  was  a  delightful  walk. 

"When  I  came  up  the  steps  at  Happy-go-lucky  I 
heard  voices  on  the  south  piazza,  and  going  around  the 
corner  of  the  house,  I  found  the  whole  party  assembled. 
The  heat  of  the  day  had  probably  been  the  cause  of 
their  being  at  home,  and  the  coolness  of  the  porch 
facing  the  ocean  had  drawn  them  together.  Mrs. 
Emlyn  was  sitting  with  a  stocking  bag  on  her  lap,  and 
a  heap  of  dictionaries  on  a  chair  beside  her,  in  whose 
company  she  had  evidently  spent  the  afternoon. 
Naomi  was  swinging  in  a  hammock,  with  a  story-book 
in  her  hand.  Ned  was  cleaning  his  gun  at  a  distance 
of  two  or  three  feet.  Mr.  Macnally  was  sitting  on  the 
step,  leaning  his  head  against  a  post.  The  colonel  and 
a  stranger  were  seated  with  their  backs  to  me,  looking 
out  over  the  tranquil,  pale  sea.  The  wind  came  faint 
and  soft  from  the  ocean,  the  waves  broke  on  the  beach 
with  scarcely  any  sound.  Ned  was  the  first  to  discover 
me  as  I  approached  them. 


EN    GRANDE    TENUE.  115 

"  I  say !"  he  cried,  jumping  up,  "  I'm  going  up 
stairs  to  dress  myself  this  minute." 

"  Oh,  how  sweet  you  look,"  cried  Naomi,  rolling  out 
of  her  hammock,  her  rough  flannel  dress  much  dis 
ordered  from  the  long  afternoon's  nap  there,  and  her 
hair  tumbled  over  her  eyes.  This  called  every  one's 
attention  to  me.  I  hadn't  put  my  parasol  down,  but 
held  it  back  over  my  shoulder,  and  stood  in  a  kind  of 
stage  fright  at  finding  myself  the  center  of  so  many 
eyes. 

"  There  she  goes, 
Pretty  as  a  rose, 
All  dressed  up  in  her  Sunday  clothes," 

roared  Ned. 

"  Ned !"  called  out  his  uncle,  reprovingly,  seeing  my 
embarrassment.  All  the  three  gentlemen  were  on  their 
feet.  The  glasses  were  on  Mrs.  Emlyn's  nose. 

"  Why  not  ?"  cried  Ned,  stoutly ;  "  she  looks 
awfully  pretty,  and  I've  never  seen  her  dressed  up 
before.  I  couldn't  help  it,  you  know  ;  I  just  couldn't." 

"  You're  a  rude  boy,"  said  his  aunt,  decisively. 
"I'm  not  at  all  proud  of  your  manners.  Take  that 
dirty  gun  away,  and  go  and  get  ready  for  your  tea." 

Ned  rather  sulkily  gathered  up  his  blackened  rags 
and  rods  and  boxes  and  went  away,  leaving  me  in  a 
worse  state  of  agitation  than  before. 

"  Don't  scold  Ned,"  I  said,  confusedly. 

"  No,  on  my  honor,"  said  the  colonel,  "  I  think  his 
aunt  was  too  hard  on  him.  I  don't  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  blame  him ;"  and  he  bowed  significantly. 

"  I  shall  go  away,"  1  said,  between  laughing  and 
crying. 


116  EN    GRANDE    TENUE. 

"I  should  think  you  would,"  cried  Mrs.  Emljn,  "as 
from  a  company  of  savages.  If  this  aberration  of  good 
breeding  occurred  very  often,  I  should  go  myself." 

"  But,"  urged  Naomi,  pressing  close  upon  me,  and 
fondling  the  ruffles  on  my  sleeve,  and  gazing  at  my 
slippers,  "  but  what  did  you  do  it  for  ?  Why  did  you 
put  your  good  clothes  on  to-day  ?" 

I  was  driven  into  a  corner ;  I  was  desperate ;  I 
didn't  know  what  I  did. 

"  You  told  me  there  was  company,"  and  with  an 
impulse  half  shy,  half  defiant,  I  lifted  my  eyes  to  the 
group  standing  before  me.  A  woman  is  rarely  mis 
taken  when  she  commands  admiration  ;  perhaps  my 
courage  rose  and  a  faint  nutter  of  coquetry  inspired 
me  as  I  met,  one  after  another,  the  eyes  fixed  upon  me. 
First  the  colonel's,  kindly  and  mirthful,  then  the 
strange  blue  eyes  of  a  strange  man,  then  the  deep,  keen 
gaze  of  Mr.  Macnally,  who  stood  behind  the  others. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  the  excuse,  we  owe  it  to 
you.  Allow  me,  madame,  to  present  to  you  the  Com 
pany,"  said  the  colonel,  with  great  enjoyment  of  his 
own  observations. 

The  stranger  bowed.  Mrs.  Emlyn,  who  did  not  un 
derstand  coquetry,  and  imagined  me  more  unhappy 
than  I  was,  said,  "  I  think  we  have  been  quite  rude 
enough,  all  of  us,  and  I  propose  to  let  our  visitor  have 
a  seat  now,  and  to  talk  of  something  besides  the 
way  she's  dressed.  It  is  so  warm,  you  did  well  to  put 
on  something  thinner,"  she  added,  as  I  sat  down  beside 
her.  Thereupon  they  all  laughed,  and  the  colonel 
said, 

"  "Why  don't  you  begin,  my  dear  ?" 

This  did  not  please  her,  and  she  simply  frowned. 


EN    GKANDE    TENUE.  117 

The  stranger  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  before  me  a 
few  feet,  leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars  that  sup 
ported  the  piazza  roof.  He  was  a  tall  man,  rather  im 
posing  in  figure  and  carriage.  He  was  probably  be 
tween  forty-five  and  fifty.  His  features  were  good  ;  ho 
had  undoubtedly  been  remarkably  handsome  when  he 
was  younger,  and  still  would  be  noticed  for  good  looks. 
His  blue  eyes  had  a  slow  way  of  fastening  themselves 
on  your  face,  and  then  not  being  easily  shaken  off.  The 
expression  of  them  was  not  entirely  pleasing.  A  heavy 
mustache  covered  his  mouth,  which  might  have  been 
bad  or  good.  His  hair,  which  was  thin  on  the  top, 
was  brown  where  it  was  not  gray.  His  clothes  were 
perfect,  a  great  contrast  to  the  old-fashioned  trimness 
of  the  colonel's,  and  the  rough  carelessness  of  the 
tutor's.  His  hands  and  feet  were  de  la  haute  noblesse; 
he  threw  the  wThole  party  into  an  inferior  position.  He 
had  evidently  been  a  man  of  the  world  from  his  youth  ; 
no  easier  and  better  manners  could  be  imagined.  One 
felt  he  always  had 

"  Sipped^wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 
And  raked  in  golden  barley," 

wine  that  had  "  grown  fat  on  Lusitanian  summers." 
Happy  Mr.  Boughton  1 

Mrs.  Emlyn  turned  to  me  and  began  to  ask  ques 
tions  about  the  children ;  why  had  I  not  let  Maidy 
come  ? 

"  It's  to  be  feared  Maidy  had  no  clothes  fine  enough 
to  accompany  her  mamma  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Macnally. 
The  visitor  transferred  his  eyes  slowly  from  me  to  the 
speaker  ;  I  wondered  what  he  thought  of  him,  from  his 


118  EN    GKANDE    TENUE. 

faded  flannel  shirt,  and  dusty  knickerbockers,  to  the 
easy  audacity  of  his  manners,  and  the  keenness  of  his 
dark  eyes. 

"  I  thought  we  had  agreed  to  give  up  the  subject  of 
clothes,"  said  Mrs.  Einlyn. 

"  I  didn't  promise." 

"  Well,  it's  time  you  did.  I  won't  have  another 
word  of  them.  It's  a  pity,"  she  continued,  "that  a 
woman  can't  put  on  a  pretty  gown  once  in  a  summer, 
without  being  frightened  back  into  flannel,  before  she's 
had  it  on  an  hour.  For  my  part,  I  never  want  to 
see  blue  flannel  again.  We've  had  a  surfeit  of  it.  I'm 
glad  to  see  you  in  anything  so  fresh  and  pretty." 

We  all  laughed,  no  one  more  heartily  than  Mrs. 
Emlyn  herself. 

"  There's  a  charm  about  you  and  your  clothes,  my 
dear.  We  all  revolve  around  you  and  can't  break 
away." 

"  I'm  going  np-stairs  to  dress,"  said  Naomi,  getting 
behind  her  aunt's  chair,  and  asking  in  a  low  voice  for 
permission  to  put  on  a  white  dress. 

"  The  contagion  of  folly,"  said  the  tutor,  shaking 
his  head,  and  balancing  himself  on  the  rail  of  the 
veranda. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  have  caught  it,  Macnally,"  said 
the  Colonel. 

"I've  had  it,"  he  said ;  "you  can't  take  it  twice. 
Sometimes,  however,"  he  added,  his  eyes  falling  on  and 
glancing  off  the  polished  boots  of  the  stranger,  "  it 
takes  a  chronic  form,  though  weakened,  and  you  never 
get  over  it.  Doctors  call  it  cachexy,  don't  they  ?  It's 
pretty  serious  then." 

For    the    first    time    since   I  had  known  him  I 


EN    GKANDE    TENUE.  119 

found  myself  annoyed  by  what  he  did ;  I  wished  he 
would  get  down  off  the  rail,  and  stop  talking  utter 
nonsense.  It  made  me  angry  to  see  the  deliberate  blue 
eyes  of  the  new-comer  measuring  him.  I  wanted  to 
have  him  thought  well  of,  and  I  felt  sure  he  was  not. 
This  was  the  first  time  that  any  stranger  had  come  in 
among  us  in  our  free  and  unconventional  life.  I  had, 
perhaps,  not  realized  how  great  a  part  of  our  enjoyment 
had  come  from  the  fact  that  we  were  all  d 'accord  /  that 
we  all  sincerely  liked  each  other.  I  was  too  sensitive 
not  to  i'eel  the  jar  of  this  new  presence.  He  dislocated 
everything.  No  one  of  us  stood  as  we  had  stood 
before.  I  lost  my  bearings,  and  began  to  criticise  every 
thing.  I  began  to  make  apologies  in  my  own  mind 
for  what  before  had  seemed  to  need  no  apology.  I 
wished  for  an  opportunity  to  explain  what  had  only 
just  seemed  to  call  for  explanation.  I  don't  know 
whether  a  similar  distortion  had  taken  place  in  the 
minds  of  the  others ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  they  were  all 
caricaturing  themselves.  The  colonel  \vas  more  prosy 
and  old-fogy  than  ever  before,  Mrs.  Emlyn  more  un 
necessarily  candid  and  sharply  plain-spoken,  and  Mr. 
Macnally  outdid  himself  in  perverse  disregard  of  all 
conventionalities.  "What  nonsense  he  talked,  and  what 
applause  he  won  from  his  host  and  hostess !  Last  night 
I  should  have  laughed,  too,  and  that  hour  after  sunset, 
looking  over  the  slowly-darkening  sea,  would  have 
been  delicious  to  me.  But  to-night  all  was  out  of 
tune. 

Tea  was  late  ;  it  was  almost  dark  when  we  were 
summoned  to  it,  and  the  candles  were  already  lighted. 
Ned  and  Naomi  came  down  promptly ;  Ned  had  actu 
ally  put  on  his  Sunday  clothes,  and  Naomi  looked  love- 


120  EN    GEANDE    TENUE. 

ly  in  her  best  white  dress,  and  a  bright  ribbon  in  her 
hair. 

"  Where  will  it  end  ?"  cried  Mr.  Macnally.  "  It  is 
the  dawn  of  the  reformation." 

"  You  are  the  only  one  not  affected  by  the  move 
ment,  Macnally,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Macnally,  bringing  rather 
prominently  forward  a  sunburned  hand  and  a  flannel 
sleeve,  in  some  unnecessary  act  of  civility  at  the  table, 
"  I  am  sorry  to  be  a  memento  mori — showing  you 
what  you  were  yesterday  and  what  you'll  without  doubt 
be  to-morrow." 

But  Mr.  Boughton,  the  visitor,  was  seated  by  me, 
and  I  was  quite  willing  to  take  his  attention  from  all 
this,  and  he  talked  to  me  when  he  could  make  me  hear 
above  the  voices  of  Ned  and  Naomi  and  the  rest. 
When  we  went  out  from  the  tea,  of  which  I  don't  re 
member  much,  except  his  unwavering  blue  eyes  on 
my  face,  and  his  persistent  low  voice  in  my  ear,  I  was 
for  a  moment  alone  by  the  parlor  lamp.  The  gentle 
men  had  gone  out  on  the  piazza  to  smoke,  Ned  was 
busy  with  his  dogs,  whom  he  was  feeding  at  the  door, 
Naomi  was  carrying  something  to  the  store-room  with 
her  aunt ;  I  stood  alone  at  the  parlor  table,  with  a  little 
contraction  of  trouble  on  my  face — which  I  suppose 
the  light  beside  me  brought  out  pretty  clearly.  Mr. 
Macnally  came  in  from  the  piazza  and  came  up  to  me, 
without  the  audacity  and  merriment  of  ten  minutes  be 
fore. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  in  an  eager,  appealing  sort  of 
way,  "  I'm  afraid  something  has  happened  to  annoy 
you.  I'm — I'm  awfully  sorry  if  I've  had  anything  to 


EN    GRANDE    TENUE.  121 

do  with,  it  but  you  know  I  didn't  mean  to,  I  needn't 
tell  you  that." 

I  was  silent — what  was  there  to  say  ? 

"  Was  it  about  that  stupid  dress  ?"  he  said,  not  look 
ing  at  me.  "  I  ought  to  have  seen ;  but  I  own  I  didn't 
think  you'd  mind." 

.  "  It  isn't  very  pleasant  to  be  made  so  absurd  before 
a  stranger,"  I  said,  with  a  taint  of  insincerity  which  was 
half  unconscious. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  right,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  can't 
tell  you  how  ashamed  I  am.  But  he  seemed  so  tire 
some,  such  an  old  muff,  with  his  shiny  boots  and  his 
slow  ways,  I  really  didn't  feel  as  if  he  were  in  the  way 
of  our  talking  just  as  we  always  do." 

This  vexed  me ;  I  don't  at  all  know  why ;  but  I 
said,  "  One  sometimes  gets  tired  of — buffoonery — all  the 
time — " 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  faintly.  I  looked  up  hastily 
into  his  face.  He  had  flushed  painfully,  and  now  the 
color  was  going  back,  and  the  expression  was  as  if  he 
had  been  wounded  physically.  I  was  ashamed  before  I 
had  actually  said  it,  and  now  I  was  frightened.  What 
had  I  done  ?  It  is  no  light  thing  to  call  your  friend's 
raillery  and  wit,  buffoonery.  Men  don't  ordinarily  say 
that  sort  of  thing  to  each  other  with  impunity ;  and 
from  a  woman,  how  much  harder  to  bear.  And  a  wo 
man,  too,  who  had  been  treated  with  such  unvarying 
homage  and  delicacy.  I  had  heard  the  children  say 
that  his  quick  Irish  temper  kept  them  in  awe  of  him  in 
school-time,  and  I  could  well  imagine  that  such  eyes  as 
his  could  sometimes  burn  with  sudden  anger.  But  he 
was  not  angry  now  ;  it  was  something  a  great  deal  worse. 
6 


122  EN    GKANDE    TENTJE. 

He  was  very  pale,  and  he  turned  away  with  the  instinct 
of  hiding  his  emotion. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  repeated,  but  in  a  low  and 
uncertain  voice.  "  I  have  not  had  any  idea  that  that  sort 
of  thing  offended  you.  I — I  have  been  altogether  mis 
taken  in — in — " 

I  tried  to  say  something  to  extenuate  my  rudeness, 
but  at  the  moment  that  I  began  to  speak,  Mrs.  Emlyn 
and  Naomi  came  into  the  room,  and  Mr.  Macnally 
left  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Mr.  Macnally  ?"  she  said. 
"  Is  he  ill  ?  lie  looks  pale,"  and  she  followed  him  to 
the  door  and  called  after  him,  but  got  no  answer. 

The  few  days  that  followed  this  are  too  uncomfort 
able  to  recall.  I  was  not  given  to  self-analysis  in  those 
days,  or  I  might  have  found  that  my  unhappiness  meant 
more  than  I  should  have  liked  to  admit.  I  thought  I 
was  only  uncomfortable  from  self-reproach.  I  was  so 
absorbed  in  my  own  feelings  that  I  think  I  must  have 
made  a  sorry  companion  in  the  walks  and  drives  to 
which  I  was  doomed  by  my  landlord  and  landlady, 
who  seemed  more  than  ever  intent  on  having  me  with 
them.  The  tutor  had  in  some  way  fallen  out  of  our 
programmes  and  Mr.  Boughton  had  taken  his  place. 
"We  hardly  saw  him  save  at  the  table,  and  then  he  was 
so  silent  as  to  be  forever  jeered  at  by  the  colonel  and 
by  Ned. 

There  was  sailing,  driving,  walking,  for  the  enter 
tainment  of  the  guest ;  I  remember  little  about  it,  but 
that  he  was  always  by  me,  and  that  if  he  had  patience 
with  my  abstraction  and  dullness,  he  must  have  been  a 
good-natured  man.  I  had  just  one  fixed  idea,  and  that 
was,  to  get  a  chance  to  make  my  peace  with  Mr.  Mac- 


EN    GRANDE    TENTTE.  123 

nally,  whose  pale  face  and  averted  eyes  haunted  me 
continually.  But  the  chance  was  not  easy  to  get.  lie 
was  not  always  at  meals,  and  he  kept  fur  out  of  my  path 
at  other  times.  I  was  frightened,  too,  when  I  did  see 
him,  and  it  was  almost  impossible  for  me  to  look  at  him 
or  address  him. 

The  table  was  dull :  we  all  languished.  Mrs.  Emlyn 
sometimes  yawned,  and  wondered  if  it  were  the  weather 
made  her  feel  so  stupid.  The  colonel  roused  himself 
to  talk,  and  didn't  rnend  matters.  He  was  not  a  con 
versationalist.  Ned  and  Naomi  sparred  a  little,  but  even 
they  seemed  to  have  lost  their  zest.  Mr.  Boughton  had 
the  floor  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  He  talked  well,  I 
suppose.  He  1  lad  a  nice  voice.  He  had  been  everywhere. 
He  told  little  incidents  very  charmingly.  (I  don't  mean 
anecdotes,  Heaven  forbid  !)  It  was  very  pleasant  to  him 
to  be  listened  to,  and  we  all  listened  pretty  well.  But 
somehow  it  was  not  very  vivacious,  and  in  the  midst  of 
it  Mi*s.  Emlyn  would  yawn,  or  Ned  would  interrupt,  or 
the  colonel  think  of  something  about  the  water-works 
that  needed  liis  personal  attention. 

The  light  had  been  put  out,  and  I  had  put  it  out, 
and  I  felt  sore  about  it  all  the  time.  What  would  I  give 
for  five  minutes  to  beg  his  pardon  in  ?  I  begged  it  all 
night  long,  when  I  lay  restlessly  awake,  and  all  day 
long,  while  Mr.  Boughton  talked  melodiously  to  me, 
and  I  didn't  listen. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  I  got  my  five  minutes. 
We  had  been  off  on  a  long  drive,  the  host  and  hostess, 
Naomi  and  Maidy,  the  guest  and  myself,  in  the  three- 
seated  open  wagon.  It  was  a  bright  day,  and  we  had 
stayed  much  longer  than  had  been  planned. 

When  we  came  back  it  was  an  hour  and  a  half  after 


124  EN    GRANDE    TENUE. 

dinner-time,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  disturb  our  entertain 
ers  very  much.  There  was  only  one  thing  that  troubled 
me  about  it,  and  that  was  that  Ned  and  his  tutor  would 
probably  have  taken  dinner  by  themselves,  after  the 
manner  of  that  free-and-easy  household,  and  gone 
away  with  their  guns.  "When  we  drove  up  to  the 
house  we  saw,  through  the  dining-room  windows,  two 
blue  flannel  backs  bending  over  the  table,  and  a  servant 
languidly  bringing  in  dessert.  Only  Ned  turned  his 
head  to  see  us  as  we  passed  the  window.  Mr.  Bough- 
ton  carried  my  shawls  into  the  parlor,  and  left  me, 
called  by  the  colonel  to  some  irrigation  consultation. 
Naomi  went  with  her  aunt  to  get  out  the  dessert.  I 
called  Maidy,  and  sent  her  into  the  dining-room  to  say 
to  Mr.  Macnally  that  I  wanted  to  speak  to  him  for  a 
moment  in  the  parlor,  when  he  should  have  finished 
his  dinner.  I  heard  her  little  baby  voice  deliver  the 
message,  and  then  I  sat  down  with  a  very  agitated  feel 
ing  and  waited  for  him  to  come  to  me. 

I  heard  Ned  push  back  his  chair,  and  invite  Maidy 
to  come  with  him  to  feed  his  dogs,  and  remind  Mr. 
Macnally  that  in  ten  minutes  they  ought  to  be  away. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  good  while  after  they  had  started 
down  the  steps  that  I  heard  him  get  up,  and  come  tow 
ards  the  door  of  the  parlor.  It  was  probably  my  own 
impatience  that  made  it  seem  so  long ;  now  that  he  was 
coming,  what,  after  all,  did  I  mean  to  say  to  him  ?  Now 
that  he  was  standing  before  me,  I  hardly  had  composure 
enougli  to  look  at  him.  I  was  sitting  on  a  sofa  by  the 
window  and  had  been  pretending  to  read  ;  I  pushed  my 
book  away,  and  asked  him  to  sit  down,  that  I  had 
something  to  say  to  him.  He  sat  down,  not  on  the 


EN    GRANDE    TENTJE.  125 

sofa,  but  on  a  chair  exactly  by  it,  and  waited  for  me  to 
speak.  But  it  seemed  simply  impossible  for  me  to 
speak.  I  bit  my  lip  and  tried  to  command  my  voice, 
bnt  it  would  not  come. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  said  at  last,  rather  low,  "  that  it 
troubles  you  to  say  what  you  want  to ;  and  I  hope 
you  won't  bother  about  it,  if  you  do  it  simply  for 
me." 

"  No,"  I  said,  gathering  voice,  "  it's  for  myself  more 
than  for  you.  It  didn't  hurt  you,  perhaps,  that  I  was 
BO  rude  the  other  night,  and  said  such  an  unpardon 
able  thing,  but  it  has  hurt  me  and  made  me  really 
wretched." 

"  That's  foolish,"  he  said,  with  a  trace  of  his  eager 
manner.  "  I  hope  you'll  put  it  out  of  your  mind  and 
never  think  of  it  again." 

"  "Will  you  ?"  I  said,  looking  at  him. 

"  Yes,  as  much  as  I  ought,"  he  answered,  with  a 
faint  smile,  looking  away. 

"  That's  it ;  you'll  remember  it  and  be  influenced  by 
it,  and  keep  it  between  us,  and  yet  forgive  rne.  I'm 
quite  sure  you  forgive  me  ;  I've  been  sure  of  that.  If 
you  only  had  been  angry.  Why  wouldn't  you  be 
angry  ?  It  would  have  been  a  blessing." 

"  You  ask  impossibilities." 

"  And  I  suppose  it's  just  as  great  an  impossibility 
for  you  to  forget  ?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  believe  me  I  could  forget  it,  if — if  you 
really  meant  me  to." 

"  Well,  I  do  mean  you  to.  I  do  ask  you  to  forget 
I  ever  said  what  wasn't  my  thought,  what  was  totally 
against  my  feeling,  what  was  utterly  untrue.  It  was 
just  the  result  of  a  foolish  discord  in  my  feelings, — I  can-^ 


126  EN    GRANDE    TENTTE. 

not  understand  it.     I  was  all  out  of  tune  and  peevish. 
I — I — wish  I  hadn't  said  it." 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly.     "  Because  you  think 
it — troubled  me  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  because  I  think  it  will  make  you 
different ;  that  we  sha'n't  have  the  same  happy  times 
again,  and  that  you'll  never  feel  the  same  towards  me." 

"  Oh !"  he  said,  and  a  deep  flush  passed  over  his 
whole  face;  "you  are  talking  about  impossibilities 
again." 

"  If  it  only  might  be  an  impossibility !  You've 
always  been  so  nice.  Don't  think  I  haven't  appreciated 
it.  I  can't  suppose  you  will  ever  be  able  to  have  ex 
actly  the  same  respect  for  a  person  who  could  do  such 
a  wantonly  rude  thing ;  but  you'll  try  and  like  me  just 
the  same,  won't  you  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  have  to  try,"  he  said,  with 
something  between  a  smile  and  a  setting  of  his  teeth 
together,  as  if  he  wished  I'd  stop. 

"  It  would  be  all  the  better  if  you  didn't  have  to 
try,"  I  answered,  not  understanding  him,  and  rejoicing 
only  in  my  own  lightened  heart. 

Ned's  tramp  was  heard  across  the  north  piazza,  and 
he  gave  a  nervous  start  and  rose. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  glancing  towards 
the  door  by  which  that  young  barbarian  might  be  ex 
pected  to  come  in ;  "  thank  you  for  what  you've  said  to 
me." 

"  I  hope  I'll  never  have  to  say  it  to  you  again,  that's 
all." 

"  I  can't  say  I  hope  it.  Kill  me  again  to-night,  if 
you  will  bring  me  to  life  to-morrow,  as  you  have  don© 
,to-day." 


EN    GRASTDE    TENUE.  127 

He  had  turned  to  go  out  of  the  piazza  window  to 
get  his  gun,  which  stood  there ;  he  leaned  towards  me 
as  he  passed  me,  and  said  it  too  low  for  Ned  to  hear, 
who  was  already  on  the  threshold  looking  in. 


CHAPTEE  XL 

CATECHETICAL. 

"I  seek  no  copy  now  of  life's  first  half  ! 
Leave  here  the  pages  with  long  musings  curled, 
And  write  me  new  my  future's  epigraph." 

E.  S.  Browning. 

THE  next  afternoon  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a  long 
conversation  with  Mr.  Boughton  on  the  piazza. 
It  was  not  an  unalloyed  pleasure,  as  I  knew  Macnally 
and  the  children  had  gone  down  along  the  beach  to 
look  at  something  which  vriih  much  philanthropy  they 
hoped  might  prove  a  wreck.  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
go  off  and  join  them,  leaving  Mrs.  Emlyn  alone  with 
the  visitor.  After  they  were  quite  beyond  recall,  Mrs. 
Emlyn  got  up  and  went  in  the  house  and  didn't  come 
out  again.  It  was  a  great  nuisance.  She  would  never 
know  the  sacrifice  that  I  had  made ;  why  had  I  not 
gone  ?  However,  I  made  the  best  of  it,  and  was  as  po 
lite  and  patient  as  I  knew  how  to  be. 

I  knew  that  Mr.  Boughton  was  a  very  recent  wid 
ower.  I  knew  that  he  was  very  rich.  These  were  the 
two  points  of  his  personal  history  that  I  possessed. 
They  were  not,  unhappily,  points  that  could  be  made 
use  of  to  furnish  conversation.  I  could  not  ask  him 
anything  about  the  late  Mrs.  Boughton.  I  could  not 
ask  him  how  it  felt  to  have  as  much  money  as  he 
wanted.  On  this  last  head  I  felt  much  curiosity,  but 
[128] 


CATECHETICAL.  129 

naturally  I  couldn't  even  distantly  allude  to  it.  It  is  a 
singular  restriction  of  good  manners,  that  we  can't  ask 
each  other  what  our  income  is.  It's  a  subject  of  such 
universal  interest ;  a  touch  of  income  makes  the  whole 
world  kin.  It  did  really  seem  hard  that  I  couldn't  talk 
to  him  of  the  only  thing  about  him  that  was  interest 
ing.  I  wanted  to  ask  him  how  it  felt  to  know  that  if 
he  wanted  anything,  from  a  house  to  a  story-book,  he 
could  have  it  by  saying  so,  and  taking  out  the  money. 
I  wanted  to  know  if  it  made  him  stop  wanting  things 
to  know  he  could  have  them.  _/  wanted  so  many  things. 
I  was  always  rushing  forward  making  plans,  and  then 
coming  crash  up  against  the  dead  wall  of  insolvency. 
Fancy  having  a  road  clear  before  you  as  far  as  you  can 
see,  and  no  limit  to  the  making  and  carrying  out  of 
plans,  but  the  desire  to  make  them  and  to  carry  them 
out.  It  would  have  been  very  entertaining  to  have  had 
his  experiences  about  it,  but,  alas,  it  was  impossible.  He 
seemed  equally  anxious  to  get  at  some  of  my  experi 
ences.  His  conversation  took  a  vaguely,  politely  per 
sonal  turn.  It's  sometimes  quite  fascinating  to  have  the 
conversation  take  a  personal  turn,  if  it's  vague  and  po 
lite  enough.  Mr.  Boughton  understood  how  to  do  it 
very  well,  but  somehow  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  tell 
him  much  about  myself,  vague  and  polite  as  he  was. 

The  afternoon  wasn't  quite  as  bad  as  I  anticipated, 
and  wore  away  much  quicker.  When  we  saw  the 
wrecking  party  coming  back  along  the  beach,  we  walked 
down  to  meet  them. 

"  I  have   a  great  curiosity,"  said  my   companion, 

slowly,  "  to  know  what  your  impression  is  of  that  young 

fellow,  whom  the  Emlyns  treat  with  such  familiarity. 

They   are  so  unconventional  and   so   benevolent,  one 

G* 


130  CATECHETICAL. 

doesn't  expect  them  to  be  discriminating  too.     But  for 
you — how  does  he  strike  you  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  unconventional  as  well  as  they,  and 
perhaps  benevolent !" 

"Not  undiscriminatingly  benevolent  in  this  case,  let 
me  hope."  And  he  fastened  his  slow  blue  eyes  on  my 
face. 

"  I  must  say,  Hike  him  immensely, — even  on  the 
top  of  a  flagstaff." 

For  Macnally  was  at  that  moment  plain  in  view, 
going  like  a  cat  up  the  pole  before  the  Coast  Guard 
house,  with  Ned  after  him,  who  necessarily,  having  only 
ordinary  legs  and  arms,  was  very  much  behind. 

"  He's  agile,  I  admit." 

"  Is  that  all  you  admit  ?"  I  said,  my  eyes  following 
the  now  descending  figure. 

"  He  has  a  glib  tongue  and  much  audacity.  I'm 
not  settled  as  to  what  I  think  his  walk  in  life  has  been. 
Perhaps  he  has  enlightened  you.  The  colonel  doesn't 
seem  to  have  much  knowledge  of  his  past." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  that  I  haven't  either.  I  only 
know  we  all  like  him  so  much  as  to  forget  whether  he 
has  had  any  past  or  not.  Ah !  He's  got  down  safely. 
But  poor  Ned  has  got  a  tumble  !" 

Naomi  by  this  time  came  tearing  up  to  us,  looking 
like  a  tomboy.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  what  a  trial 
we  must  be  to  Mr.  Boughton,  one  and  all  of  us.  After 
tea,  the  colonel  took  Mr.  Boughton  away  to  smoke,  and 
Mrs.  Emlyn  went  out  for  her  usual  walk  on  the  piazza. 
The  rest  of  us  closed  in  around  the  parlor  lamp ;  it  was 
on  a  wide,  bare  table,  of  which  the  mahogany  shone. 
Naomi  settled  down  to  her  drawing ;  I  sat  with  my 
embroidery  on  my  lap,  my  work-basket  on  the  table. 


CATECHETICAL.  131 

Mr.  Macnally  sat  just  beyond  me,  pulling  out  the  gay- 
colored  worsteds  and  making  patterns  with  them  on  the 
mahogany.  Ned  had  his  back  to  us,  reading  intently  a 
Waverley  novel,  and  not  looking  up  even  when  he  was 
spoken  to,  which  wasn't  often.  A  happy  sort  of  quiet 
had  settled  on  us,  which  was  broken  by  Naomi  say 
ing, 

"  How  much  nicer  it  is  since  you  came  here  to  live 
in  the  cottage !  I  think  it  is  just  as  if  you  lived  here 
at  this  house,  and  had  the  cottage  too.  Mr.  Macnally, 
don't  you  think  we  have  a  great  deal  nicer  times  since 
the  middle  of  June  ?" 

"  Since  the  middle  of  June  ?  Why,  wasn't  it  before 
that  that  we  had  our  great  haul  of  blue-fish  ?  I  don't 
think  I've  had  a  bite  since  then.  And  as  to  the  snipe, 
the  little  beggars  haven't  looked  at  us  for  a  month 
or  more.  We  had  prime  luck  when  we  first  came 
down." 

"  Oh,  nonsense.  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  at 
home  here,  all  the  time,  and  going  to  drive  and  all 
that.  It  mayn't  make  any  difference  to  you  and  Ned, 
but  I  know  Aunt  Penelope  and  I  like  having  her," 
and  she  leaned  over  from  her  chair  and  gave  me  a  lit 
tle  kiss. 

"  Thank  you,  Naomi,  dear ;  and  I  like  being  with 
you." 

"  Who  do  you  come  to  see  here  ?"  she  said.  "  Aunt 
Penelope  is  so  much  older,  and  I  am  so  much  younger ; 
I  wish  you  came  to  see  me.  As  to  the  others,  they're 
as  bad.  Only  Mr.  Macnally.  He  is  near  your  age. 
Aren't  you,  Mr.  Macnally  ?  Tell  me  truly,  are  you  older 
than  she  is,  or  younger  ?  No,  you  couldn't  be  younger." 

"  Not  if  I  tried !" 


132  CATECHETICAL. 

"  But,  do  you  really  think  you  are  his  age  ?  You 
don't  come  to  see  him,  anyway." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  before,  Naomi.  It  is  rather 
embarrassing.  I  actually  don't  know  whom  I  come  to 
see." 

"  I  know,"  said  Ned,  tipping  back  in  his  chair  and 
looking  over  his  shoulder  at  us.  "  I  know,  and  I'll 
tell  you  something  if  you'll  all  promise  not  to  tell." 

"  I  pledge  myself  for  one,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  now,  honest,  though — Mr.  Macnally,  and  Na- 
'omi,  you.  I  heard  something  this  evening,  just  before 
tea,  while  I  was  asleep  in  the  hammock — Mr.  Boughton 
and  uncle  were  sitting  there  talking,  and  I  couldn't 
help  hearing ;  they  ought  to  have  looked  out  if  they 
hadn't  meant  me  to  hear  'em." 

The  boy's  face  shone  with  mirth,  and  he  twisted 
himself  around  on  his  chair  and  put  his  elbows  on  the 
table.  "  The  first  I  heard  was  uncle  saying,  '  She  is  a 
charming  young  creature,  all  tenderness  and  sweetness,' 
or  some  such  stuff  as  that ;  and  then  old  Boughton  said 
in  a  spoony  sort  of  way,  '  She's  perfectly  unconscious  of 
her  beauty  ;  she's  the  only  woman  that  I  ever  saw  that 
was.'  Then  uncle  said  she  had  always  lived  in  a  very 
quiet  sort  of  way,  but,  that  generally  women  found  out 
they  were  good-looking  if  they  lived  in  the  backwoods. 
Then  the  old  fellow  knocked  the  ashes  off  his  cigar, 
and  said  (oh,  if  you  could  have  heard  him !  with  a  sort 
of  swell) :  '  Col.  Enilyn,  she  would  adorn  any  station.'  " 

The  boy  doubled  himself  up  with  laughter. 

"  What  were  they  talking  of  ?  What  is  the  fun  of 
it  P  I  said,  bewildered. 

"Oh,  you  don't  see?  Good  for  you.  Adorning 
any  station.  I  suppose  the  old  cad  thinks  his  station  is 


CATECHETICAL.  133 

tho  tip-toppest  one  to  let  just  about  now.  I  wonder  if 
there  is  a  woman  alive  that  would  be  fool  enough  to 
take  him  ?" 

"  Plenty  ;"  I  said,  sagaciously.  "  He  isn't  so  very 
old ;  he's  very  handsome,  or  he  has  been,  anyway.  And 
his  manners  are  so  gentlemanly  and  quiet.  A  woman, 
might  do  worse,  Master  Ned.  I  wish  you  may  have  as 
good  a  chance  as  he,  when  you  are  forty- five." 

"  Whew,"  said  Ned,  "  I  begin  to  be  afraid  to  tell 
my  joke." 

"  I  don't  see  any  joke  so  far,"  said  Naomi. 

"  Nobody  expected  you  to,"  said  Ned,  casting  a  con 
temptuous  glance  at  her  over  his  shoulder.  Then  he 
turned  to  us,  and  went  on  sotto  voce,  with  glances  at 
the  window  to  see  if  any  one  were  coming  in :  "  He's 
in  earnest,  he's  awfully  in  earnest,  and  it's  coming  very 
soon,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  But  no  matter.  I  couldn't  be 
quite  positive  about  when  he's  going  to  speak.  He  was 
asking  all  particulars  of  uncle.  lie  wanted  to  know 
how  old,  about,  she  was,  how  long  her  husband 
had  been  dead — whether  there  were  any  relations  that 
would  be  any  way  objectionable — whether  there  was  a 
possibility  of  any  other  attachment  being  in  his  way — " 

"  Ned,"  said  the  tutor  in  a  voice  that  made  him 
start,  though  it  wasn't  any  louder  than  his  own  ;  "  it's  bad 
enough  to  listen,  but  to  repeat  what  you  have  heaid's 
a  little  too  bad  for  even  schoolboy  morals." 

Ned  flushed,  and  looked  both  angry  and  sulky. 

"  You  didn't  seem  to  mind  at  first,"  he  said,  with  a 
sharp  look  at  his  tutor's  face. 

"  I  wasn't  paying  much  attention  when  you  first 
began,"  he  returned,  meeting  his  eye  with  a  glance  that 
sent  it  down. 


134:  CATECHETICAL. 

"I  know!"  cried  Naomi,  dropping  her  pencils,  and 
leaning  forward  with  excited  eyes.  "  He  means  you  ! 
Tell  me,  does  he  mean  you  ?  Did  you  know  he — he — 
felt  that  way  ?  Tell  me,  did  you  know  it  P 

Naomi  had  never  been  as  near  as  this  to  any  matter 
of  the  heart  before  ;  she  felt  awed,  one  might  say,  by 
[the  proximity  of  a  proposal,  even  though  it  came  from 
a  man  of  forty-five  or  over.  Her  sentimental  ideas  of 
love  were  suffering  a  little  distraint  from  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  scantiness  of  Mr.  Boughton's  hair,  and  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  married  before,  but  nevertheless 
it  was  the  most  thrilling  moment  of  her  life.  She 
pushed  back  her  drawing  things,  and  slid  down  on  her 
knees  beside  me,  and  put  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  mind  it,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that 
he  has  been  married  before  ?" 

I  had  grown  red  and  white  a  great  many  times  since 
this  revelation,  and  was  bending  over  my  work,  trying 
to  steady  myself  to  speak  when  I  should  be  called  upon. 
1  hadn't  attained  any  great  composure  of  voice  and 
manner  when  I  was  obliged  to  answer  Naomi's  very 
searching  question. 

"  If  I  had  anything  to  do  with  the  matter,"  I  said, 
"I  should  mind  it.  But  I  haven't." 

"  But  he  meant  you,"  cried  Naomi ;  "  Ned  says  he 
did.  Don't  people  generally  know  when — when — 
other  people  are  going  to  ask  them — for  their  hand  ?" 

Naomi  had  read  Miss  Austen  and  the  Waverleys, 
and  felt  she  was  correct  in  her  phraseology,  though  it 
didn't  sound  quite  right  when  used  in  the  light  of 
common  day.  Ned  snickered,  and  Naomi  blushed 
scarlet,  but  even  her  mortification  could  not  withdraw 
her  thoughts  from  the  fascinating  subject. 


CATECHETICAL.  135 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said,  softly,  "  that  you  would 
have  known." 

"  I  should  not  be  likely  to  think  of  what  would  be 
an  insult  to  me." 

"  An  insult !  "Why,  I  thought  people  thought  it 
was  a  very  high  compliment — an  honor.  I  don't  see 
how  it  could  be  anything  else.  Do  you  mean,"  she 
went  on,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "do  you  mean  be 
cause  you — had — been — been  married  before  2" 

I  signified  an  assent  in  some  way. 

"  Tell  me  just  this  one  thing,"  she  said,  earnestly  ; 
"  do  you  think  it  isn't  nice  for  people  to  get  married 
again?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  think  it  is  nice,  Naomi.  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  any  more  about  it." 

"Just  this  one  thing;  just  answer  me  this  one 
question  and  I  won't  bother  you  any  more,"  and 
Naomi's  eyes  filled  with  a  strange  intentness.  "  Would 
you  ever  get  married  again  ?  Would  anything  induce 
you  ?" 

"  No,  Naomi,  I  would  not ;  nothing  would  induce 
me." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  cried  the  child,  clasping  her  hands 
around  her  knee,  and  gazing  up  into  my  face.  "I 
didn't  think  you  would.  I  don't  see  how  any  one 
can  do  it ;  any  one,  at  least,  that  has  really  been 
loved." 

The  woman's  heart  was  stirring  in  the  bosom  of 
thirteen.  It  was  not  Miss  Austen  and  the  Waverleys 
this  time. 

"  Tell  me  one  thing  more — 

"  No,  Naomi,  not  one  thing  more.  You  promised 
me,"  I  said,  very  low. 


136  CATECHETICAL. 

Ned  had  gone  back  to  his  book,  but  he  was  not 
reading  very  much.  His  eye  furtively  studied  all  the 
faces  in  turn  around  the  table.  I  don't  think  he  got 
much  out  of  Mr.  Macnally's,  who  made  and  remade  the 
worsteds  into  patterns  on  the  table,  and  never  once 
lifted  his  head.  I  was  struggling  so  hard  to  command 
myself  that  I  suppose  I  looked  unnatural.  I  heard  a 
moving  back  of  chairs  upon  the  piazza,  where  the  colonel 
and  his  guest  were  smoking,  and  then  my  plans  for 
escape  took  sudden  shape.  In  a  moment  more  they 
would  be  in  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Emlyn  too.  And  then 
the  going  home  ;  it  was  possible  the  colonel  would  lend 
himself  to  some  plan  for  giving  his  guest  an  opportu 
nity  for  seeing  me  alone,  perhaps  this  very  evening.  I 
pushed  my  work  into  my  basket  rapidly  and  got  up. 

"  I'm  going  home,"  I  said,  as  quietly  as  I  could. 
"  Say  good-night  to  your  aunt,  Naomi." 

"  Aren't  you  going  out  on  the  piazza  to  speak  to  her  ? 
"Won't  she  think  it's  queer  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  call  her  in  ;  I  must  go.  Tell  her 
Sophia  was  going  to  the  village,  and  I  had  to  go  to  stay 
with  the  children.  Good-night." 

And  I  hurried  into  the  dining-room,  where  my  wraps 
had  been  hung.  Mr.  Macnally  had  got  up  when  I  did. 
I  got  my  things  down  from  the  pegs  below  the  stairs, 
and  hurried  out  upon  the  porch,  just  as  the  gentlemen 
from  the  other  side  of  the  piazza  were  entering  the  par 
lor  by  one  of  the  windows.  I  almost  ran,  and  was  half 
way  to  the  gate  before  I  found  I  was  followed  by  Mr. 
Macnally. 

"  You  have  dropped  one  of  your  shawls,  or  perhaps 
it's  Maidy's  little  cloak,"  he  said  simply,  coming  up  be 
side  me. 


CATECHE1ICAL.  13T 

"  It's  Maidy's ;  oh,  thank  you,"  and  I  stopped  and 
took  it,  panting  a  little  from  my  flight.  "  I — I  sha'n't 
need  any  one  to  go  home  with  me,"  I  added,  as  he 
walked  beside  me.  "  Indeed,  I'd  almost  rather  be  alone. 
I  hope  you  won't  think  me  rude,  but  I'd  rather." 

"  It  would  make  me  very  uncomfortable  to  think  of 
your  going  by  yourself,"  he  answered.  "  It  is  a  lonely 
road." 

"  I  don't  mind  it.  It's  not  far.  And  there  is  a 
moon." 

"  Therefore  you  don't  need  a  man."  And  when  he 
made  this  poor  joke,  he  gave  a  short  laugh,  which 
grated  on  my  ear.  There  was  a  moon,  in  a  clear,  calm 
sky,  and  by  it  I  saw,  as  I  glanced  at  him,  that  his  face 
had  a  contracted,  hard  look,  unlike  himself.  It  seemed 
to  me  everything  was  reeling  out  of  place  in  my  poor 
little  world.  I  felt  frightened. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  a  little  unreasonable,"  he  said, 
in  an  altered  tone,  very  ordinary  and  controlled,  "  to 
avenge  on  all  of  us,  who  haven't  offended  you,  the  of 
fense  of  another  person,  who,  you  consider,  has  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  avenge  anything  on  anybody,  but 
I'm  in  a  hurry.  I  want  to  get  home  to  the  children. 
I — I  think  I'd  rather  go  alone." 

"I  hope  you'll  let  me  go  with  you,"  he  said, 
earnestly.  "  There  are  often  strange,  rough-looking 
men  about.  There  is  now  a  schooner  unloading  over 
in  the  bay.  I  didn't  like  the  look  of  some  men  of  her 
crew  who  have  been  about  the  village  through  the 
day." 

We  had  got  to  the  gate  by  this  time,  and  I  passed 
out  of  it,  and  paused  for  an  instant  as  1  saw  he  stood 
still. 


138  CATECHETICAL. 

"Have  this  much  consideration  for  me,"  he  said. 
"  I  will  not  go  if  you  forbid  me,  but  I  shall  be  very 
uncomfortable  if  you  do." 

"  Oh,  you're  very  kind.  I  shall  not  be  afraid  ;  but 
if  you  want  to  come — I  mean,  if  you  think  it  best  to 
come,  I  shall,  of  course,  be  very  much  obliged." 

So  he  swung  the  gate  shut  after  us,  and  walked  be 
side  me  silently.  The  night  was  serene,  and  the  sky 
brilliant  with  stars,  and  with  a  great  full  moon.  There 
was  a  smell  of  salt  in  the  air,  and  the  wind  was  soft 
south-west.  The  grass  was  a  little  damp,  and  we  made 
our  way  out  into  the  road.  We  met  no  one ;  the  only 
sound  was  the  slow  beat  of  the  surf  upon  the  shore, 
away  from  which  we  were  walking.  Across  the  level 
fields  I  could  see  the  light  in  the  window  of  our  cot 
tage. 

For  a  long  while  neither  of  us  spoke ;  then  I 
said,  with  a  suddenness  that  must  have  been  rather 
startling  to  my  companion, 

"  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you.  Will  you  answer 
me  honestly,  whatever  you  may  think  ?" 

He  did  not  reply  at  once.  After  a  moment,  he 
said,  "  I  can  think  of  but  one  question  that  I  wouldn't 
be  willing  to  answer  you  honestly,  and  I  don't  believe 
you'll  ask  me  that.  What  is  it  that  you  want  me  to 
tell  you?" 

"You  heard,  I  suppose,  what  Ned  said  to-night. 
Granting  it  to  be  true — for  I  don't  think  he  is  old 
enough  and  bad  enough  to  have  invented  it — I  want 
you  to  tell  me — do  you  think  I  have  done  anything  to 
have  deserved  it  ?  You  have  been  here  all  the  time, 
you  are  very  observing,  and  it  seems  to  me  }TOU  must 
know  if  I  have." 


CATECHETICAL.  139 

"  I  don't  understand.  What  do  you  mean  exactly  ? 
Have  you  deserved  what?" 

"  Why,  this  mortification,  this  humiliation,  this  talk 
ing  me  over  as  if  it  were  a  possible  thing  that  I — that — 

"  I  suppose  I  understand  what  }rou  mean.  But  you 
must  excuse  me  if  I  say  I  can't  look  at  it  as  you  do.  I 
can't  see  anything  in  what  Ned  said  to  mortify  and 
humble  you.  I  can  understand  that  it  might  make  you 
angry  to  feel  that  any  one  whom  you  didn't  favor  had 
presumed  so  far.  That  a  woman  must  always  feel,  I 
suppose.  But  I  don't  see  any  cause  for  feeling  hum 
bled  and  degraded  by  it." 

"  Then,  if  you  cannot  understand,  I  cannot  hope  to 
make  you.  But  I  will  put  my  question  plainer,  and 
you  can  surely  answer  it  that  way.  Have  you  ever 
seen  anything  in  my  manner,  at  any-  time,  to  justify 
any  one  in  thinking  that — that  I  would — that  it  would 
be  possible  for  me — to  marry  again  ?" 

A  perceptible  shudder  ran  through  me,  as  I  forced 
myself  to  say  the  words.  A  long  pause  followed  ;  we 
walked  on  slowly ;  my  companion  hit  the  heads  oS 
several  daisies  with  his  stick,  as  they  shone  up  at  us  in 
the  moonlight ;  I  loosened  the  clasp  of  the  cloak  about 
my  neck,  for  it  seemed  to  smother  me. 

"  I  promised  to  be  honest,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  and 
I  will  be  frank  as  well.  If  it  is  presuming,  please  do 
not  blame  me.  I  never  should  have  dreamed  of  offer 
ing  you  my  judgment,  if  you  had  not  asked  it  of  me." 

«  Yes,  I  know.     Well  ?" 

"  My  judgment  isn't  so  very  awful ;  you  needn't 
be  alarmed.  You  are  young,  to  begin  with,  and 
very  natural.  When  you  are  happy,  you  are  happy  ; 
when  }TOU  are  pleased,  you  smile  upon  whoever 


140  CATECHETICAL. 

pleases  you,  and  don't  make  a  disguise  of  it.  No 
one  could  misunderstand  you,  who  was  capable  of 
discriminating.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  possible  that  any 
man  could  connect  the  idea  of  coquetry  with  you.  But 
that  doesn't  help  the  matter  much  ;  in  the  world,  one 
never  knows  who  one's  judges  are.  One's  got  to  be 
prepared  for  misinterpretation.  This  gentleman  who 
has  presumed  to  think  of  you :  how  can  one  tell  whether 
lie  is  true  and  simple  enough  to  know  truth  and  simplicity 
when  he  sees  it,  or  whether  he  carries  his  conceited  and 
tainted  judgment  with  him  wherever  he  goes  ?  Of  one 
thing  I  can  assure  you ;  I  never  saw  you  give  him  a 
look,  a  smile,  a  word,  upon  which,  in  my  judgment,  he 
could  have  founded  the  very  faintest  hope." 

"  That's  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  I  said,  drawing  a 
deep  breath  of  relief. 

"  But  it's  not  all  I  wanted  to  say,"  he  pursued,  after 
another  pause.  "  We  are  on  the  subject,  and  I  want 
to  say  one  word  more  before  we  finally  dismiss  it.  I 
don't  know  what  right  I  have  to  presume  to  give  you 
counsel.  I  have  never  fancied  myself  having  the 
temerity  to  do  it,  but  Ned's  eavesdropping  seems  to 
have  bouleverse  everything.  May  I  say  to  you  just  one 
thing  ?  I  warn  you  that  you  may  not  like  it?  and  that 
you  may  think  I  am  presuming." 

"  Of  course  it  is  right  for  you  to  tell  me  if  you  see 
me  doing  wrong;  we  have  known  each  other  well 
enough  for  that." 

"  It  is  not  in  my  creed  that  you  could  possibly  do 
wrong." 

"  Ah  !" 

"  But  that  you  might,  from  tne  excess  of  some  good 
feeling,  be  led  into  what  would  be  fatal  to  your  happi- 


CATECHETICAL.  141 

ness.  If  it  were  only  wicked  people  got  themselves 
into  a  mess,  it  would  simplify  affairs  exceedingly.  But 
it's  the  ones  like  you — let  me  beg  your  pardon — who 
do  it  quite  as  often.  Let  me  say  it  quickly,  for  I  know 
you  won't  like  it.  You  are  making  a  mistake  about 
yourself,  and  putting  yourself  in  a  wrong  place.  Row  can 
it  be  wise  for  you  to  expect  to  go  through  the  world  as 
if  you  were  something  sacred — to  expect  to  be  treated 
as  one  apart  from  the  ordinary  walks  of  life  ?  Believe 
me,  people  won't  understand  you  ;  the  world  doesn't 
acknowledge  such  distinctions." 

"  Then  I  will  go  away  from  the  world ;  I  will  shut  my 
self  up  from  people  if  they  will  not  let  me  go  my  way." 

"  "Well,  if  you  think  that  the  best  and  wisest  thing 
for  your  two  little  girls.  Won't  it  be  bringing  them 
up  to  rather  a  dreary  sort  of  life  ?  "Would  it  be  good 
for  Maidy,  especially,  to  be  brought  up  cheerlessly '?" 

"  That  depends  upon  what  you  call  cheerlessness." 

""Well,  to  be  shut  out  from  the  world,  from  all 
healthy  young  society." 

"  They  needn't  be  that." 

"  They  will  have  to  be,  if  their  mother  refuses  to  be 
philosophic  about  occurrences  like  that  which  led  us 
into  this  conversation.  If  she  is  unable  to  school  her 
self  to  take  a  cheerful,  natural  part  in  the  society  in 
which  she  happens  to  be  placed." 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  to  think  about  that  when 
they  are  a  little  older." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  there  is  anything  gained  in 
putting  off  lessons,  when  we  once  acknowledge  that 
we've  got  to  learn  them." 

"  But  I  don't  acknowledge — " 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  will,  when  you  have  thought  it 


142  CATECHETICAL. 

over.  Won't  you  do  me  one  favor  ?  Put  all  this  out 
of  your  mind  ;  forgive  this  presuming  gentleman ;  of 
course,  you  needn't  see  him  again,  but  Jet  him  go  in 
peace  ;  you  may  well  believe  he  won't  stay  very  long  ; 
and  then  let  things  go  on  as  before,  and  don't  bother 
about  anything  in  the  future.  You  don't  want  to  make 
Ned  and  the  colonel  and  Mrs.  Emlyn  wretched,  I  am 
sure,  by  making  too  much  of  the  matter." 

Clever  reasoner,  ingenuous  listener !  Before  we  had 
reached  the  cottage  gate  and  lifted  its  rusty  latch,  my 
tumultuous  feelings  had  been  sensibly  reduced,  and  I 
was  almost  brought  to  feel  ashamed  of  them.  I  went 
and  sat  between  the  children's  beds  in  the  little  nursery, 
and  watched  beside  them  while  Sophia  was  away  at 
the  village.  I  certainly  had  made  rather  a  fool  of  my 
self,  and  I  wished  sincerely  that  I  hadn't  said  so  much. 
I  promised  myself  to  be  wiser  in  the  future.  1  could 
act  upon  my  resolutions,  but  there  was  no  use  in  talk 
ing  about  them,  even  to  the  friends  whom  I  knew  best. 
Mr.  Macnally  undoubtedly  felt  that  I  was  weak  and 
womanish.  No  one  enjoys  being  thought  weak  and 
womanish.  He  had  been  very  kind,  but  it  was  plain  to 
me  that  he  would  treat  any  display  of  my  exceptional 
views  with  deep  though  silent,  contempt.  I  felt  sure 
he  had  wanted  to  laugh  at  me  all  the  time,  though  he 
had  been  so  deferential.  I  promised  myself  that  I 
would  let  things  go  on  exactly  as  before  ;  only  I  would 
be  on  my  guard  if  any  more  middle-aged  widowers 
strayed  into  our  peaceful  pastures. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SECOND   THOUGHTS. 

"  They  are  dangerous  guides  the  feelings " 

MRS.  EMLYN  was  very  much  distressed  about  the 
matter,  which  Naomi  did  not  fail  to  repeat  to 
her  in  full.  The  result  was  I  was  allowed  to  remain  in 
quarantine  for  several  days,  and  the  widower  was  dis 
couraged  at  second-hand.  He  went  away,  as  might 
have  been  expected.  Mr.  Macnally,  it  is  probable,  sug 
gested  that  nothing  be  said  to  me  about  the  matter, 
and  so,  though  I  had  had  several  visits  from  everybody 
but  Ned,  who  was  en  penitence,  there  were  no  allu 
sions  to  the  subject.  It  was  a  little  awkward,  as  no 
body  dared  to  make  a  joke  of  it,  and  it  wasn't  the  kind 
of  thing  to  bear  serious  treatment.  It  must  have  been 
a  constant  temptation  to  Mr.  Macnally,  but  he  was  so 
very  honorable,  I  never  detected  a  smile  on  his  mouth, 
or  a  twinkle  in  his  easily  ignited  eye.  It  is  disagreea 
ble  to  feel  one's  self  the  object  of  such  circumspection. 
One  distrusts  nothing  so  much  as  what  one's  friends 
do  not  say  to  one. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  gentleman's  departure,  I 
was,  by  a  little  stratagem,  got  to  Happy-go-lucky  for 
dinner,  and  once  the  ice  was  broken,  everything  went 
on  as  before.  There  was  no  change,  except  that  every 
one  was  kinder  than  ever,  and  that  my  dear  host,  in- 

[143] 


144  SECOND    THOUGHTS. 

stead  of  resenting  my  objection  to  his  plans  for  my 
happiness,  made  more  of  me  than  ever,  as  if  to  atone 
for  having  unwittingly  given  me  even  an  imaginary 
cause  of  pain.  We  slid  again  into  the  old  life,  and  no 
one,  married  or  single,  came  to  disturb  our  easy,  pleas 
ant  days.  Only  once  did  the  colonel  propose  sending 
for  some  friends  to  pass  a  week. 

"  An'  you  love  me,  no,"  cried  his  wife.  "  Life's  too 
short  for  that  sort  of  thing,  not  to  say  the  summer.  It 
gives  me  indigestion  to  be  civil  to  people  for  whom  I 
do  not  care.  1  simply  will  not  have  them." 

So  she  simply  did  not  have  them,  and  we  were  hap 
py.  I  read  German  as  usual  with  her.  I  drove  with 
the  colonel.  I  went  crabbing  and  fishing  and  sailing 
with  the  children  and  their  tutor.  Maidy  and  Baby 
were  lugged  about  with  unfailing  patience  and  good 
nature  by  Naomi  and  Macnally,  and  even  by  Ned.  I 
don't  know  how  I  could  have  fancied  I  deserved  half 
the  kindness  I  got,  or  have  been  comfortable  under  it. 
But  it  all  seemed  the  natural  order  of  things,  and  I  was 
happy. 

The  summer  had  worn  on  now  to  the  latter  half  of 
August.  It  was  Saturday,  I  think  the  third  Saturday 
in  August.  Saturday  was  always  a  festival  in  the  Hap 
py-go-lucky  calendar,  because  there  were  no  lessons. 
Very  soon  after  breakfast  the  cart  had  driven  up,  for 
Maidy  and  me  to  go  crabbing.  \\Te  spent  all  the  morn 
ing  on  the  bay,  Maidy  and  I  drifting  along  in  the  boat, 
and  Macnally,  Naomi  and  Ned  plunging  about  in  the 
water  with  their  nets,  shouting,  splashing,  dripping.  Rex 
sat  in  the  prow  of  the  boat,  shivering  if  a  drop  of  water 
fell  on  him ;  Maidy  dipped  her  hands  in  the  little  rip 
ples  of  waves  that  the  south-west  wind  made  as  it  came 


SECOND    THOUGHTS.  145 

across  the  sand-lrills  from  the  sea.     The  sunshine  was 
now  and  then  obscured  by  fleecy  white  clouds 

" — shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind," 

which  moved  across  the  deep  blue  sky.  The  wide 
stretching  country  looked  green  and  ripe  with  the  late 
summer  vegetation.  Beside  the  bay  lay  long  acres  of 
unfenced  meadows,  among  the  damp  grass  of  which  grew 
meadow-pinks  by  millions,  and  where  snipe  fed  and 
fluttered.  From  the  boat,  where  I  rocked  idly,  I  could 
see,  across  the  level  stretch  of  fields,  here  and  there  a  low 
farm-house,  with  its  environment  of  trees :  here  and 
there  a  distant  sharp  white  steeple  pricking  up  into  the 
sky  from  its  surrounding  village.  The  wind-mills  waved 
their  white  arms  in  the 'sunlight ;  in  a  field  near  by,  the 
rrcn  stacked  the  sheaves  of  corn  beside  a  wagon  loaded 
with  great  golden  pumpkins.  The  ducks  along  the 
shore  dived  and  paddled  and  quacked  ;  once  and  again 
a  white  gull  darted  down  from  the  heights  above,  dipped 
in  the  blue  water  for  its  prey,  and  flashed  away  victori 
ous.  I  liked  the  smell  of  the  seaweed  lying  on  the 
shore ;  I  liked  the  sights  around  me,  and  the  sense  of 
security,  and  the  idleness  and  the  feeling  of  health  that 
the  fine  air  gave  me.  I  watched  the  crabbers,  now  led 
far  away  from  me,  now  back  almost  beside  the  boat. 
It  would  have  bored  me  very  much  to  have  been  as 
muddy  and  wet  as  they,  but  it  amused  me  to  watch 
them.  I  held  Maidy's  dress  in  one  hand,  to  keep  her 
from  tipping  over  into  the  water,  and  I  talked  a  little 
to  Rex  to  keep  his  spirits  up,  and  so  the  morning 
passed.  When  it  was  time  to  go,  they  put  the  baskets 
of  crabs  in  the  boat,  and  Macnally  and  Ned,  up  to  their 
7 


SECOND    THOUGHTS. 

waists  in  water,  drew  us  along  the  shore,  half  the  length 
of  the  bay,  to  where  we  had  left  the  cart. 

"  It's  quite  a  march  of  triumph,"  I  said. 

"  Especially  to  the  crabs,"  said  Mr.  Macnally. 

It  wasn't  quite  so  much  of  a  march  of  triumph 
when  we  had  all,  wet  and  dry,  to  get  into  the  cart. 

"  Which  will  you  be  neebor  to,  me  or  the  crabs, 
shure  ?"  asked  Macnally,  as  he  stood  by  the  basket  of 
crabs,  the  most  abominable  object,  his  bare  legs  covered 
with  sea-weed  and  mud,  and  his  trowsers,  rolled  above 
the  knees,  dripping  with  water. 

"  I'd  much  rather  get  out  and  walk  than  be  neigh 
bor  to  any  of  you." 

"  I  say,  Ned,  we  are  a  most  disreputable  lot,"  he 
exclaimed,  as  that  vagabond  came  up.  "  You  and  I 
and  the  crabs  must  hang  on  "behind  the  cart,  while 
Naomi  gets  on  the  front  seat.  We  must  trust  to  them 
to  drive.  Life  is  always  uncertain." 

A  more  disreputable  lot  certainly  never  drove 
through  the  peaceful  village  ;  Sophia's  nostrils  were 
justified  in  their  expression  of  contempt,  as  she  flounced 
away  from  the  front  door  of  the  kitchen,  where  she  was 
sitting  with  Baby,  when  we  drew  up  before  the  gate. 
She  would  not  look  upon  us. 

"  It's  only  to  get  Baby,"  called  out  Naomi.  "  They 
are  all  going  home  to  dinner  with  us." 

But  it  was  useless  calling  to  her.  Naomi  had  to  go 
and  get  Baby  and  find  her  sack  and  her  'hat.  Sophia 
would  none  of  us.  Mrs.  Ernlyn,  even,  thought 
Macnally  and  Ned  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  their  cos 
tume,  or  their  want  of  it,  and  she  sent  them  up-stairs, 
sharply  reprimanded,  to  make  themselves  respectable  for 
dinner. 


SECOND    THOUGHTS.  147 

"  Tliere  is  a  limit,"  she  said,  with  a  severe  look  upon 
the  four  shoes  left  standing  on  the  threshold,  and  the 
four  barefooted  tracks  across  the  boards  of  the  piazza. 

Ned  only  rectified  matters  by  a  clean  suit  of  his 
ordinary  blue  flannel,  but  Mr.  Macnally  came  down  a 
petit  mattrc,  the  daintiest  little  man  I  ever  saw.  No 
body  had  ever  known  he  had  such  clothes.  He  looked 
as  handsome  as  possible ;  his  hair,  which  had  grown 
since  June,  was  parted  fastidiously.  His  clothes  were 
of  rather  a  light  gray,  and  of  the  best  London  make. 
The  children  howled  around  him  ;  even  Maidy  seemed 
to  understand  the  joke,  and  clapped  her  little  hands 
when  the  colonel  turned  him  round  and  round  to  look 
at  him.  Baby  dived  into  his  pocket  and  tore  out  his 
fresh  and  most  distinguished-looking  handkerchief. 

"  It's  embroidered ;  it's  got  initials  on  it ;"  cried 
Naomi,  catching  it  from  Baby.  "  How  many  letters — 
L — what  Is  it ;  isn't  that  an  L  ?  I  didn't  know  you 
had  a  middle  name." 

But  Macnally  flushed  and  seemed  annoyed,  and, 
putting  out  his  hand,  took  it  back  peremptorily,  and 
pushed  it  out  of  sight  in  his  pocket ;  then  he  kissed 
Baby  with  a  brightening  of  the  face,  as  if  to  beg  her 
dear  little  pardon  for  being  annoyed  at  anything  which 
she  had  been  remotely  the  occasion  of.  Mr.  Macnally 
was  very  swell  all  through  the  dinner,  though  with  the 
slight  disadvantage  of  having  Baby  on  his  knee  the 
whole  time.  She  refused  to  leave  him,  and  he  would 
not  permit  her  to  be  taken  away.  It  was  a  more  in 
formal  meal  than  ordinary,  even  ;  we  had  not  been  ex 
pected  quite  so  near  the  regular  dinner  hour,  and  things 
came  up  rather  intermittently.  It  was  quite  immaterial 
to  us  at  what  stage  the  farcied  crabs  came ;  they  got  a 


l&y  SECOND    THOUGHTS. 

little  mixed  up  with  the  dessert,  but  we  ate  them  all 
the  same,  together  with  some  belated  sweet  potatoes, 
which  appeared  contemporaneously.  Naomi  left  her 
pudding  to  run  out  and  get  a  flower  for  the  tutor's 
button-hole.  Maidy  insisted  upon  going  round  the 
table  and  sitting  beside  him,  and  having  her  peaches 
and  cream  carried  around  after  her.  My  discipline  at 
home  was  indifferent,  but  at  Happy-go-lucky  it  faded 
out  of  sight.  The  colonel  encouraged  the  children  in 
all  sorts  of  liberties,  and  Mrs.  Emlyn  snubbed  me  when 
I  remonstrated. 

"  Your  children  are  well  enough,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  let  them  alone  a  little  ;  that  is  all  they  need." 

We  all  sat  on  the  piazza  after  dinner,  Macrially  sit 
ting  in  the  hammock,  and  the  babies  and  Naomi  all 
tumbling  about  him,  swinging  him  and  being  swung 
alternately.  Mrs.  Emlyn  had  her  stocking  bag  and  her 
dictionaries  in  a  chair  beside  her. 

"  You  don't  get  on  much  with  your  German,"  she 
said  to  me,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Emlyn,"  I  cried,  "  if  you  only  knew 
how  lazy  I  am  !" 

"  Well,  it's  good  for  you,  I  suppose,  but  I  should 
think  you  would  get  tired  of  it." 

"  I'm  not  tired  of  anything  here.  I  only  wish  it 
might  go  on  forever." 

"Somebody's  walking  over  your  grave,  Mr.  Mac- 
nally.  You  shivered,"  cried  Naomi. 

"  My  '  good  clothes '  are  too  thin,  perhaps,"  he  said, 
rolling  up  Baby  into  a  little  ball  and  burying  her  in 
some  shawls  in  the  hammock,  at  which  Rex  barked 
and  made  an  uproar. 

"Seriously,"  said  Naomi,  "do  you  believe  in  that?" 


SECOND    THOUGHTS.  149 

"  Believe  in  what  ?  My  good  clothes  ?  Of  course 
I  believe  in  my  good  clothes ;  you  would  too  if  you'd 
paid  for  them.  They  cost  a  lot  of  money." 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean  ;  shivering  when  peo 
ple  walk  over  your  grave,  and  all  that." 

"  Nonsense,  Naomi,"  said  her  aunt,  "  you're  getting 
superstitious  as  well  as  sentimental.  Where  do  you 
learn  such  things  ?  A  year  ago  you  never  talked  such 
nonsense." 

"  I  heard  my  uncle  say  that,"  said  Naomi,  doggedly. 

"  We  shall  have  to  be  careful  what  we  say  before 
you." 

"  Oh,  you'll  soon  get  tired  of  that.  But  why 
should  people  say  so  if  it  isn't  true  ?" 

"What  ague-fits  the  old  Romans  must  have  had, 
Naomi,  with  their  graves  along  the  roadsides.  I  should 
think  they  would  have  shivered  all  their  bones  out  of 
joint,"  said  her  aunt. 

"  They  did  have  ague-fits  sometimes  ;  I  read  of  it." 

"  But  these  must  have  been  continual,  with  the 
steady  tramp  of  multitudes.  All  business  must  have 
been  suspended,  for  every  one  in  Home  must  have  been 
chattering,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest.  I  think, 
Naomi,  we'll  have  to  dismiss  that  theory  for  the  want 
of  proof." 

Naomi  looked  a  little  ashamed.  "  What  made  you 
shiver  then,  Mr.  Macnally,  if  it  wasn't  that?"  she  said, 
persistently. 

"  I'm  very  delicate,  you  know,  and  I  think  I  feel  a 
little  draught." 

As  we  were  holding  our  hats  on  our  heads  for  the 
gale,  even  Maidy  laughed. 

"  Aunt    Penelope,"   said   Naomi,   quite   ready   to 


150  SECOND    THOUGHTS. 

change  the  subject,  "  you  promised  us  we  might  have 
tea  on  the  beach  some  night  this  month.  This  is  just 
the  night." 

"  Because  the  wind  is  blowing  a  gale  ?" 
"  The  men  on  the  beach  said  it  would  fall  at  sun 
down." 

"  What  do  they  say  about  the  shivering  business  ?" 
Naomi  pouted.    "  Mayn't  I  go  and  tell  the  cook  to 
get  things  ready  for  us,  Aunt  Penelope  ?" 

"  Better  see  first  if  anybody  wants  it  but  yourself." 
Naomi  fell  upon  me  with  kisses,  and  begged  me  to 
say  I  wanted  tea  on  the  beach.     "  And  you  too,  Mr. 
Macnally,  say  you  want  tea  on  the  beach." 

"  I  would  rather  have  tea  on  the  beach,  Miss  Naomi, 
than  inherit  a  fortune — yes,  than  have  an  offer,  or  than 
be  elected  President,  or  than  have  a  pair  of  diamond 
earrings^  or  than  find  out  where  my  grave  is  going  to 
be—" 

"  You  see,  Aunt  Penelope,  they  all  want  it — may  I 
tell  the  cook  ?" 

The  cook  was  told,  the  preparations  began.  Naomi 
was  full  of  business.  Mr.  Macnally  and  she  and  the 
children  and  I  were  to  go  along  the  beach  and  select  a 
"  site."  Ned  was  to  follow  later  in  the  cart  with  the 
pots  and  kettles  and  the  things  to  eat,  and  then  was  to 
go  back  for  the  colonel  and  his  aunt. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

TWO   GEAY  EGGS  IN  THE  SAND/ 

"And  oh,  those  days  beside  the  sea! 

The  skerries  paved  with  knotted  shells, 
The  bright  pools  of  anemone, 

The  star  fish  with  its  fretted  cells, 

The  scudding  of  the  light  foani-bells 
Along  the  stretch  of  rippled  strand 
Spotted  with  worms  of  twisted  sand, 

The  white  gulls,  and  the  shining  sails, 

And  the  thoughts  they  all  brought  from  the  Wonder-land  1" 

Olrig  Grange. 

IT  was  an  afternoon  to  be  remembered  ;  the  sky  and 
sea  were  gloriously  blue,  the  wind  was  fresh,  but 
not  cold  ;  a  storm  had  just  spent  itself  out  at  sea ;  the  surf 
ran  very  high  and  burst  in  marvelous  glitter  and  mag 
nificence  at  our  feet.  The  delight  of  that  beach  always 
was  its  loneliness ;  there  was  rarely  a  human  footprint 
on  it;  the  sand  always  lay  smooth  and  pure  up  to  the 
very  banks ;  now  and  then  the  little  three-pronged 
print  of  a  sand-piper's  claw,  or  the  winding  trail  of  a 
snake  from  among  the  tufts  of  beach-grass,  would 
mark  it. 

We  found  the  place  where  we  meant  to  make  our 
encampment.  It  was  a  spot  where  the  beach  was 
widest,  and  where  we  were  well  sheltered  by  the  sand 
hill.  We  spread  down  our  shawls  and  blankets ;  the 
children  went  off  to  gather  drift  wood  for  the  fire,  Mr. 

[151] 


152         TWO  .GRAY  EGGS  IN  THE  SAND. 

Macnally  to  drive  in  the  stakes  and  find  the  cross-piece 
for  the  kettle.  I  wrapped  myself  in  the  shawls,  and  lay 
dreaming,  with  the  sound  of  the  surf  in  my  care.  A 
tuft  of  beach-grass  grew  at  my  elbow,  with  the  mys 
terious  little  circle  in  the  sand  around  its  base ;  and  be 
yond  it,  idly  looking,  I  saw,  in  the  grayish-yellow  sand, 
two  grayish-yellow  eggs,  laid  in  a  sand-made  nest. 
The  eggs  were  so  near  the  color  of  the  sand,  and  the 
depression  in  which  they  lay  so  slight,  it  was  almost 
matter  of  surprise  I  had  discerned  them.  The  little 
hollow  was  lined  with  small,  smooth  pieces  of  shell,  well 
worn  by  the  beating  of  the  waves.  Trusting  little 
creatures,  committing  their  treasure  to  the  mighty  One 
who  rules  the  tide  crawling  to  its  bounds  beside  them, 
and  the  deep  sky  with  its  hidden  tempests  of  wind 
and  lire  and  water,  spread  above  them  ! 

The  little  nest  gave  me  many  thoughts  as  I  bent 
over  it.  The  eggs  were  still  warm,  so  I  moved  my 
blanket  a  few  feet  further  away,  and  lay  very  still,  that 
the  mother  might  come  back  and  hover  them  with  her 
soft  breast.  She  did  not  come,  as  long  as  I  watched, 
and  my  eyes  wandered  away  to  my  two  little  ones,  com 
mitted  to  God's  care  as  blindly,  with  the  waves  of  death 
washing  up  beside  them,  and  the  firmament  of  destiny, 
with  its  manifold  and  hidden  powers,  spread  over  them. 
Nothing  between  them  and  the  vastness  of  life's  possi 
bilities  but  my  feeble,  fluttering  heart's  protection  and 
God's  omnipotence.  "With  tears  dimming  my  eyes  I 
watched  the  little  figures  moving  about  upon  the 
sand,  and  pledged  myself  in  my  own  heart  to  live 
and,  if  need  be,  die  for  them,  who  had  no  other  earthly 
guard. 


TWO    GRAY    EGGS    IN    THE    SAND.  153 

I  was  startled  from  my  re  very  by  a  step  beside 
me.  It  was  Mr.  Macnally,  with  his  axe  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  I  am  tired,  as  becomes  a  gentleman  ;  I'll  do  no 
more  menial  service  in  my  good  clothes,"  he  exclaimed, 
throwing  down  his  axe  upon  the  sand. 

I  gave  a  cry.  Alas  !  the  poor  little  nest  was  buried 
beneath  the  cruel  steel. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  I  exclaimed,  starting  up. 
"  Ah,  the  poor,  poor  little  nest !" 

And  I  lifted  the  axe  from  the  crushed  and  scattered 
eggs.  In  my  afternoon's  revery  I  had  identified  myself 
so  with  the  little  guardian  of  the  nest,  that  I  could  not 
keep  back  my  tears.  "  The  miserable  little  mother,"  I 
cried,  looking  into  the  beach  grass  for  her. 

"  A  plague  upon  my  carelessness,"  he  cried ;  "  it 
was  a  nasty  thing  to  do." 

I  went  into  the  beach  grass,  peering  down  ;  a 
plover,  with  a  piercing  cry,  flew  up  and  darted  away. 
"  The  miserable  mother  !"  I  repeated,  gazing  after  her 
through  my  tears,  which  could  not  have  seemed  other 
wise  than  silly,  to  a  man. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
harshness  in  his  voice.  I  glanced  at  him,  and  his  face 
showed  pain  enough  to  make  me  ready  to  forgive  him. 
I  don't  know  whether  it  was  my  tears  or  the  bird's  sharp 
cry  that  had  given  him  the  pain,  of  which,  however,  he 
seemed  genuinely  ashamed. 

"  I  know  you  didn't  mean  to  be  careless,  of  course  ; 
but  I  had  been  watching  it  for  an  hour,  meaning  to 
warn  any  one  that  came  near,  and  to  propose  that  we 
move  away  from  here,  not  to  scare  her ;  the  poor,  poor 
little  mother !" 
7* 


1  TWO    GEAY    EGGS    IN    THE    SAND. 

"  I  hope  she  won't  lose  her  mind,"  he  said,  testily. 
"  One  hears  of  being  as  crazy  as  a  coot ;  perhaps  a  plover 
might  go  insane  as  well." 

I  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  which  only  added  to 
his  irritation. 

"  You're  so  unhappy,"  he  said ;  "  and  yet  I'll  be 
bound  you  ate  an  omelette  for  your  breakfast." 

"  If  I  didn't  know  you  were  sorry,  I  shouldn't  for 
give  you,"  I  said,  sitting  down  on  the  heap  of  shawls, 
and  turning  my  face  away  from  him. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  in  a  softened  tone,  throw 
ing  himself  down  on  the  sand  ;  '"  but  I  just  can't  bear 
to  see — anybody — cry.  And  it  seemed  to  me  such 
a  little  thing  to  cry  about — two  gray  eggs  in  the 
sand !" 

"It  wasn't  just  two  gray  eggs  in  the  sand;  it  was  a 
great  deal  more." 

"Well,  what  was  it;  won't  you  tell  me  what  it 
was?" 

"  It  was  my  thoughts,"  I  said,  swallowing  down 
some  more  tears  as  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  fluttering  lit 
tle  white  figures  in  the  distance.  His  eye  followed 
mine,  and  no  doubt  his  thought ;  for  his  mind  always 
moved  lightning-quick,  and  his  sympathy  was  as  keen. 
I  felt  he  watched  me  covertly  for  a  few  minutes.  It 
made  me  restless,  and  I  got  up  and  said  I  was  going  to 
bring  the  children  back. 

"Why  should  you  go,"  he  said ;  "  I  can  make  them 
hear." 

And  he  gave  a  peculiar,  clear  call,  with  which 
Naomi  was  familiar.  She  waved  her  handkerchief  in 
reply,  and  went  towards  the  little  ones,  playing  beyond 
her  on  the  beach.  I  sat  down  again,  and  my  compan- 


TWO  GRAY  EGGS  IN  THE  SAND.         155 

ion  resumed  his  position  near  me,  only  with  his  face 
seaward.  The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  hills  at  our 
back.  The  wind  had  fallen,  as  the  sailors  had  pre 
dicted.  Lovely  tints  from  the  sunset  colored  the  sea 
and  the  opposite  heavens.  The  tide  was  coming  in, 
and  the  great  waves,  edged  with  white  foam,  rushed  up 
the  sands,  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  us.  Through 
openings  in  the  sand-hills,  when  we  looked  behind  us 
towards  the  sunset,  there  were  beautiful  glimpses  of 
the  green  meadows  and  the  blue  Shinnecock  Hills 
that  bounded  the  horizon,  and  far,  far  on  each  hand 
stretched  the  wide,  lonely  beach,  on  which  the  ever- 
changing,  yet  ever-monotonous  waves  beat  their  long- 
drawn  music  out. 

At  last,  through  the  opening  nearest  to  us,  came 
Ned's  lusty  shout. 

"  The  ball  opens,'-'  cried  Macnally,  starting  to  his 
feet.  "  No  more  time  for  sunsets." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  help  you  get  the  tea  ready  ?" 
and  I  got  up  rather  reluctantly. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say,  I  think  it  is  your  duty." 

"  Hurry  up,"  cried  Ned.  "  Don't  you  know  I've 
got  to  go  back  for  the  others." 

The  cart  was  soon  unloaded ;  such  a  lot  of  things, 
even  to  a  jug  of  water  and  several  bundles  of  pine 
knots. 

"  They  didn't  depend  much  upon  the  resources  of 
the  country,"  said  Macnally.  "  I  had  found  a  spring, 
but  I  had  misgivings  about  the  drift-wood  holding  out. 
Better  bring  a  few  more  bundles  with  you  when  you 
come  back  with  the  colonel  and  your  aunt." 

When  Ned  was  gone,  we  lighted  the  fire  and  swung 


156  TWO    GRAY    EGGS    IN    THE    SAND. 

the  kettle,  and  spread  the  cloth  on  the  bottom  of  an 
old  "  panny  "  that  Mr.  Macnally  had  found  up  in  the 
beach  grass  high  and  dry,  and  had  dragged  down  on 
the  sand.  It  made  an  excellent  table,  except  for  a  ten 
dency  to  slope  downward  at  the  ends,  so  the  things  to 
eat  had  to  be  all  put  in  the  middle.  The  h're  was  just 
beyond  on  the  sand,  and  was  blazing  brightly,  and  the 
kettle  already  throwing  out  its  steam,  when  the  chil 
dren's  voices  were  heard  approaching. 

"  Oh,  there,"  I  said,  as  I,  on  my  knees,  was  stirring 
the  coffee  in  the  little  pot  in  which  it  was  to  boil,  "  I 
meant  to  have  taken  those  broken  eggs  away.  I  don't 
want  the  children  to  see  them,  particularly  Ned,  who 
hasn't  any  principle  about  birds'  nests." 

"  I'll  go  and  bury  'em  dacent, "  he  said.  "  And  sha'n't 
I  bury  the  hatchet  too  ?"  he  added,  looking  back. 

I  was  a  little  ashamed  of  my  sensibility  by  this 
time ;  the  practical  business  of  getting  tea  had  restored 
me,  therefore  I  didn't  mind  his  lambent  wit. 

The  children  broke  into  exclamations  of  delight  at 
the  fire  and  the  big  cake  on  the  table,  and  the  biscuits 
and  the  cold  chicken  and  the  jar  of  marmalade.  They 
hovered  like  little  gnats  around  the  fire,  and  with  shrieks 
of  delight  laid  on  occasionally  a  modest  splinter  to  in 
crease  the  blaze.  When  the  beach  cart  appeared  in  the 
opening  with  the  dear  colonel  and  the  dearer  aunt,  we 
set  up  a  great  shout  of  welcome,  and  all  ran  to  conduct 
them  across  the  sand  to  the  fire.  The  coffee  boiled  over, 
of  course,  as  soon  as  I  turned  my  back,  so  I  had  to  hurry 
to  it,  and  leave  to  the  others  the  duties  of  hospitality. 
But  it  made  a  delicious  smell  that  gave  the  colonel 
more  pleasure  than  all  our  welcome  or  all  the  glories  of 
the  sea  and  sky. 


TWO    GRAY    EGGS    IN    THE    SAND.  157 

The  colonel  sat  on  a  barrel  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
with  his  overcoat  on.  He  was  very  careful  about  not 
taking  cold,  and  said,  though  we  had  heard  it  before, 
that  eternal  vigilance  was  the  price  of  health.  Mrs. 
Emlyn  sat  on  the  slope  of  the  panny,  at  the  foot ;  and 
Naomi,  her  yellow  hair  damp  with  the  spray,  but  her 
cheeks  red  with  the  fire,  and  her  eyes  bright  with  en 
joyment,  ran  from  the  kettle  to  the  table  ceaselessly, 
now  handing  up  a  cup  of  coffee  to  her  uncle  on  his  bar 
rel,  now  carrying  the  biscuits  to  her  aunt,  or  giving 
Ned,  under  protest,  a  second  spoon  for  his  marma 
lade. 

"  You  know  there's  only  one  apiece ;  now  Maidy 
and  I  will  have  to  use  the  same.  It's  just  exactly  like 
you." 

"  Children,  there's  one  spice  we  never  lack  at 
any  of  our  meals,"  cried  the  colonel,  shaking  his  head, 
but  drinking  his  coffee  with  complacency. 

"It's  grown  indispensable  to  me,"  said  Macnally, 
buttering  his  bread  with  the  carving-knife.  "  A  meal 
wherein  we  vaguely  feel  there  is  some  want,  is  a  meal 
where  Naomi  and  her  brother  don't  give  us  any  quar 
relling." 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  make  a  joke  of  it," 
said  Col.  Emlyn.  "But  let  me  tell  you,  such  hab 
its  are  bad  tenants ;  they  ruin  the  property,  and  you 
won't  easily  get  them  out.  I  may  live  to  see  Naomi 
nag  her  husband  and  Ned  bully  his  wife." 

"  There  is  no  danger,"  cried  Naomi,  tossing  her 
pretty  head. 

"  Not  the  least,  for  you,"  said  Ned,  in  an  offensive 
tone,  which  embittered  the  biscuit  t'hat  Naomi  had  sat 
down  to  eat. 


158  TWO    GRAY     EGGS    IN    THE    SAND. 

"  I  know  what  kind  of  a  man  I  slia'n't  .marry,"  she 
said,  with  a  mouthful. 

"  So  do  I,  lots  of  'em ;  in  fact  I  don't  know  any 
other,"  returned  Ned. 

I  was  still  kneeling  at  the  fire,  Rex  beside  me,  pour 
ing  out  the  coffee — endless  cup,0,. 

"  You  haven't  had  anything  to  eat,"  said  the 
colonel,  his  appetite  appeased.  "  Macnally,  I'tn  ashamed 
of  you,  in  your  good  clothes  too.  I  should  have 
thought  you'd  have  had  better  manners." 

"Don't  reproach  me,"  cried  Macnally,  "I've  been 
feeding  these  children  for  the  last  half  hour.  One 
can't  be  nursery-maid  and  preux  chevalier  at  the  same 
time.  I'm  hungry  as  a  bear  myself." 

The  meal  was  a  very  long  one.  The  sunset  was 
gone,  and  a  faint  twilight  begun,  when  the  last  appe 
tite  was  satisfied. 

"  Now  we  must  be  going  home,"  said  the  colonel, 
bustling  about ;  "  it  is  getting  very  damp." 

"  Oh,  bother  home  !"  cried  Macnally,  flinging  him 
self  down  before  the  fire.  "  It's  just  beginning  to  be 
pleasant  here.  Let's  stay  till  the  moon  rises." 

"  The  children,"  I  said.  "  I'll  have  to  take  them 
home." 

''Oh,  hang  the  children,"  he  returned,  profanely. 
"  Or  throw  them  on  the  fire." 

Maidy  thereupon  climbed  into  my  arms  as  we  sat 
around  the  blaze,  and  Baby  stared  at  him,  standing  be 
hind  me,  with  her  chin  on  my  shoulder.  He  looked  a 
picturesque  figure,  lying  stretched  upon  the  sand,  with 
the  strong  light  of  the  fire  on  his  slender,  well-made 
limbs,  his  black  hair,  and  his  intensely  shining  eyes. 

A  compromise  was  made ;  the  children  went  home 


TWO    GRAY     EGGS    IN    THE    SAND.  159 

in  the  cart  with  the  colonel,  who  was  to  send  back 
the  cart  with  one  of  the  men.  This' man  was  to  finish 
packing  up  the  pots  and  kettles,  and  was  to  drive  back 
such  of  the  party  as  desired  to  drive.  We  were  all 
grown  very  lazy  since  our  supper,  and  nobody  wanted 
to  be  post-prandial  waiter  or  kitchen-maid.  We  pushed 
the  panny,  feast  and  all,  into  the  background,  spread 
our  blankets  near  the  fire,  piled  on  pine  knots,  and  sat 
down  around  the  blaze,  Rex  with  his  nose  almost  in  the 
ashes. 

The  night  was  still  and  beautiful,  the  sky  deep  and 
dark,  full  of  sharp,  clear  points  of  stars.  The  tide  had 
turned  and  was  going  slowly  down  ;  the  roar  of  the 
waves  had  lessened,  or  we  were  used  to  it.  Where  the 
fire-light  reached  the  water  there  was  a  wonderful 
pageant,  but,  except  that  stripe  of  brilliance  all  was 
dark,  and  the  unseen  roar  beyond  seemed  sullen. 

"  The  moon's  due  in  half  an  hour  from  now,"  said 
Ned,  bending  down  to  look  at  his  big  silver  school-boy 
watch  by  the  fire-light. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Macnally,"  cried  Naomi,  who  sat  close 
beside  me,  with  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees,  a 
red  shawl  drawn  over  her  head ;  "  say  something  for 
us." 

"  Good-night,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  don't  mean  that." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Do  you  mean  you're 
too  lazy  to  chatter,  as  well  as  to  put  the  cups  and 
saucers  away  ?  Are  you  going  to  turn  over  your  talk 
ing  to  me  ?" 

"  I  know  you  understand  me.  I  want  you  to  recite 
some  verses  for  us— to  say  something  that  you  know 
by  heart.  Please,  now,  don't  make  a  fuss.  Remember 


160  TWO    GKAY    EGGS    IN    THE   SAND. 

what  you  tell  me  when  Aunt  Penelope  makes  me  play 
for  company." 

"  Right,  Naomi,  that's  a  very  good  argument ;  Mr. 
Macnally,  you  must  begin  at  once." 

"  Exactly,  Mrs.  Emlyn ;  but  where  shall  I  begin  ?" 

"  Ask  Naomi ;  she  seems  to  know  what  you  can 
do." 

"  I  know,  I  know !"  cried  Naomi,  all  eagerness.  "  Be 
gin — right  at  the  beginning  of — '  Shamus  O'Brien.'  " 

"  No,  no,  Naomi,  that's  not  fair.  You  don't  make 
a  good  choice,  either.  Let  me  tell  you  the  '  Pied 
Piper.' " 

"  I  don't  want  the  '  Pied  Piper.'  " 

"  Then,  have  something  about  the  sea — •'  Sir  Patrick 
Spens,'  the  '  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,'  '  Inch  Cape 
Eock'— " 

"I  don't  want  any  wreck  or  any  sea.  I  want 
'  Shamus  O'Brien.' " 

"  '  Shamus  O'Brien  !'  "  we  all  called  out. 

And  we  had  "  Shamus  O'Brien  ;"  in  fact,  we  have  it 
still,  for  I  don't  believe  any  of  the  four  who  listened  to 
it  will  ever  be  able  to  forget  it  if  they  try.  Naomi 
was  shivering  and  sobbing  in  my  arms  when  it  was 
over ;  Ned  took  a  long  breath,  as  if  he  had  not  breathed 
since  it  began ;  Mrs,  Emlyn  drew  back  her  face  from 
the  firelight,  and  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak  for  a 
long  time ;  and  as  for  me — but  I  cried  so  easily,  it  was 
no  great  victory  to  make  me  cry.  I  think  that  victory 
might  have  been  won  though,  over  tougher  and  colder 
natures ;  I  think  there  are  few  people  who  would  not 
have  thrilled  and  shivered  and  wept  at  that  marvelous 
recital;  at  the  wonderful  pathos  of  his  voice,  the 
wonderful  power  of  his  glance; — "fountain  and  fire  j" 


TWO    GRAY     EGGS     IN    THE    SAND.  101 

I  could  not  analyze  his  empire  over  my  feelings,  then 
or  ever;  I  did  not  even  ask  myself  what  moved  me;  I 
trembled  and  wept,  and  lifted  my  head  and  looked 
away,  and  tried  to  think  of  other  things,  as  a  child 
might. 

He  looked  pale  when,  the  recital  over,  he  bent  down 
and  threw  some  more  wood  upon  the  lire. 

"  It  will  be  gone  before  the  moon  arrives/'  he  said, 
looking  towards  the  east,  where  there  was  as  yet  no 
sign  of  its  appearing.  We  all  sat  quits  still ;  nobody 
wanted  to  talk  for  a  few  minutes ;  Macnally  went  to 
see  if  the  cart  were  coining.  He  did  not  return  till 
Ilex's  sharp  bark  had  warned  us  that  it  was. 

"  Who's  going  to  ride  ?"  said  Mrs.  Emlyn,  getting 
up  and  shaking  off  her  emotion. 

"  Better  see  for  whom  there's  room  when  all  the 
things  are  in,"  I  said. 

When  the  things  were  all  in,  there  was  barely  room 
for  two.  I  felt  quite  fresh  and  ready  to  walk,  and  so, 
after  a  good  deal  of  protest,  it  was  settled  that  Naomi 
should  ride  with  her  aunt,  and  Ned  and  Mr.  Macnally 
and  I  should  walk  home  along  the  shore.  Ned  didn't 
want  to  walk,  and  grumbled  a  good  deal  that  he  was 
not  allowed  to  drive,  and  the  man  sent  on  foot,  but  his 
aunt  would  rather  have  walked  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico 
than  have  permitted  him  to  drive  her  half  a  mile. 

While  we  were  raking  out  the  embers,  the  moon 
came  up ;  the  last  expiring  blaze  of  the  fire  looked 
pitiful,  in  its  sudden  glorious  light.  We  were  quite 
ready,  inconstant  ones,  to  leave  it,  and  start  on  our  walk 
along  the  now  illuminated  beach.  Ned  kept  with  us 
for  a  long  while — as  long,  indeed,  as  Mr.  Macnally 
would  sing  with  him.  Ned  had  a  good  voice,  but  his 


162  TWO    OKAY   EGGS    IN    THE    SAND. 

repertoire  was  not  extended,  and  only  that  his  and  his 
tutor's  voices  blended  and  sounded  rich  and  strong  and 
mellow,  would  one  have  been  contented  to  hear,  over 
and  over,  the  same  ineffable  nonsense.  When  Mr.  Mac- 
iially  halted,  and  dragged,  and  finally  declined  to  go 
further  on  such  a  monotonous  strain,  Ned  betook  him 
self  off,  by  a  short  cut  home,  across  the  fields.  Rex, 
draggled  and  damp  with  the  spray  and  the  dew  com 
bined,  ran  on  before  us,  a  white  speck  in  the  moon- 
light. 

The  sand  was  heavy,  but  we  walked  down  close  to 
the  waves,  where  it  was  wet  and  a  little  harder.  Some 
times  there  was  a  silver  mist  over  all ;  then  that  would 
be  swept  away,  and  the  full  glory  of  the  moon  would 
overflow  the  heavens  and  the  sea.  Sometimes,  when  I 
was  tired,  we  would  sit  down  on  the  sand  and  rest  a 
little  while  ;  we  did  not  talk  much.  It  was  the  sort  of 
night  that  one  feels  can't  come  twice  in  a  summer,  such 
a  rare  combination  of  cloudless  sky,  full  harvest  moon, 
and  balmy  air. 

"  Under  a  harvest  moon,"  said  Macnally,  as  we  sat 
resting  thus  upon  the  sands,  "  one  may  naturally 
moralize  upon  what  one  has  been  sowing  through  the 
summer."  • 

"  This  idle  summer !  I  am  afraid  it  would  depress 
me  to  think  what  I  have  sown,  or  rather  what  I 
haven't." 

"  We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand, 

And  deem  them  ever  past, 

But  they  shall  last  ; 
j  In  the  dread  judgment  they  and  we  shall  meet." 


TWO    GKAY     EGGS    IN    THE    BAND.  163 

"  "Why  do  you  say  such  things  ?"  I  said,  shivering, 
getting  up. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  One  can't  help  thinking, 
a  little — once  in  a  while." 

"  I  should  have  said  you  put  the  periods  pretty  far 
apart." 

"  Why  ?   Because  I  couldn't  cry  over  a  bird's  egg  ?" 

"  I  thought  that  was  buried." 

The  rest  of  the  party  had  been  at  the  house  a  long 
time  when  we  got  there.  Mrs.  Einlyn  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  piazza,  and  looking  rather  anxious. 

"  You  will  be  tired  to  death,"  she  said.  "  It  was  a 
great  walk  for  you,  through  that  heavy  sand.  I  should 
have  made  you  ride.  I  have  kept  the  cart  to  take  you 
home." 

"  Thank  you.     Then  I  won't  sit  down." 

"  No,  you'd  better  not.  It's  getting  late,  and  it  is 
damp,"  she  said,  with  characteristic  frankness.  "  Be 
sides,  the  man  is  waiting  up,  and  he's  been  working 
hard  all  day." 

"  I'll  drive  you,"  said  Ned,  going  down  the  steps. 
I  kissed  Mrs.  Emlyn  good-night,  and  went  down  after 
him.  Mr.  Macnally  was  standing  beside  the  cart;  I 
saw  him  put  his  hand  on  Ned's  shoulder,  and  heard 
him  say.  to  him  in  a  low  voice, 

"Let  me  drive  to-night,  won't  you?" 

Ned  started,  and  looked  not  well  pleased  ;  he  drew 
back  and  said,  a  little  sulkily,  "  If  you  want  to." 

"  That's  a  good  fellow,"  said  his  tutor,  low,  as  I 
came  down  the  last  step  ;  and  he  put  me  in  the  cart, 
and  sprang  in  beside  me. 

"We  drove  on  silently  for  a  while.  Nothing  that  he 
had  ever  said  to  me  had  ever  startled  me.  "What  he 


164        TWO  GKAY  EGGS  IN  THE  SAND. 

had  said  to  Ned  did  startle  me.  Why  did  he  want  to 
drive  me  home  to-night?  He  always  respected  Ned's 
rights  and  position  so  scrupulously,  and  never  asked 
favors.  As  he  had  said,  one  must  think  a  little — once 
in  a  while ;  and  I  vaguely  and  uncomfortably  began  to 
think. 

He  stooped  down  to  look  at  his  watch  by  the  moon 
light.  "The  post-office  won't  be  closed,"  he  said; 
"  sha'n't  we  go  for  the  letters,  before  I  take  you  home?" 

"  You'd  better  leave  me,  first,"  I  said.  "  It's  late ; 
besides,  I'm  a  little  cold." 

"  Here  are  two  shawls  under  the  seat,  beside  the 
blanket.  Tie  my  handkerchief  around  your  neck. 
See,  you  can't  be  cold  now.  And  we  may  never  have 
another  harvest  moon.  Besides,  I  may  have  some  let 
ters  that — that  I  want  to  consult  you  about.  Go  with 
me  to  the  post-office,  won't  you,  please  ?" 

It  seemed  perverse  to  say  no,  and  I  wanted  to  go, 
too.  So  I  wrapped  the  shawls  around  me,  and  tied  the 
handkerchief  on  my  throat,  and  consented  to  drive  on 
past  the  cottage,  at  the  gate  of  which  stood  Sophia, 
looking  out  for  me. 

"  I  shall  be  back  presently,  "  I  called,  as  we  drove 
by.  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  didn't  give  me  any  answer, 
but  slammed  the  gate  and  went  in. 

"  I  shall  pay  for  it  to-morrow,"  I  sighed. 

"  An  hour  of  this  harvest  moon  is  worth  a  month  of 
her  bad  temper,"  he  said  slackening  the  horse's  gait. 
It  was  heavenly.  The  village  looked  asleep,  save  for  a 
light  in  a  window  here  and  there,  and  a  girl's  figure 
now  and  then  leaning  over  a  gate,  listening  to  some  de 
parting  sweetheart's  words.  The  white  houses  were 
picturesque  flecked  with  the  shadows  of  the  vine  leaves 


TWO    GRAY    EGGS    IN    THE    SAND.  165 

growing  over  them.  The  trees  threw  long  shadows  on 
the  road.  At  the  post-office  there  was  a  light  still 
burning. 

"  We  are  not  too  late,"  he  said,  springing  out,  but 
he  came  back  in  a  few  minutes  looking  a  little  disap 
pointed. 

"  There  are  no  letters,"  he  said,  "  only  the  colonel's 
Scientific  American,  and  some  agricultural  journals. 
His  ten  acres  ought  to  be  pretty  well  worked  up. 
Every  published  light  is  thrown  upon  them." 

"  Have  you  no  letter  for  me  ?  For  once  I  was  ex 
pecting  one." 

"  You  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  thought  you  never 
cared  for  letters.  You  told  me,  I  remember,  that  noth 
ing  coming  from  outside  South  Berwick  could  be  of 
any  interest  to  you." 

"  Nous  avons  change  tout  cela.  I  have  an  interest 
now." 

"  Seriously  ?"  he  said,  giving  me  a  quick  look. 

"  Very  seriously." 

"  Don't  make  me  uneasy,"  he  said,  rather  low. 

"  Why  should  it  make  you  uneasy  ?  You  don't  tell 
me  about  your  letters." 

"  I  would — I  meant  to,  if  you  would  listen — if  you 
cared  to  know." 

"  That's  all  very  well.  I've  wanted  to  know  all 
summer  and  you  haven't  told  me." 

"  Ah  !  I'm  afraid  you're  not  sincere  to-night.  It  is 
not  like  you  to  be  insincere." 

"  At  all  events,  I'll  be  sincere  about  my  letters.  I 
am  expecting — a  pattern  for  Maidy's  new  set  of  aprons. 
I  can't  sleep  for  thinking  of  it.  I  wrote  two  weeks 
ago,  and  no  word  has  come  about  it." 


166  TWO    GRAY    EGGS    IN    THE    SAND. 

"  Ah  !"  lie  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  believe  that's  all 
the  interest  that  you  have  in  life." 

"  Well,  that  and  their  fall  dresses." 

He  had  not  turned  the  horse's  head  when  we  left 
the  post-office,  but  was  driving  on  through  the  village. 

"  Where  are  we  going  ?"  I  said. 

"  Anywhere,"  he  answered,  "  but  towards  home." 

"  Oh,  please  turn  back.  It's  late.  I — want  to  go 
home." 

"  To  lie  awake,  pondering  the  pinafores,  and  the 
fall  dresses  ?" 

He  saw  that  I  was  distressed  and  in  earnest  about  it, 
and  slowly  turned  the  horse's  head,  and  slowly  drove 
back  through  the  sleeping,  silvered  village. 

"  It  has  been  such  a  perfect  day.  You  might  have 
added  just  a  half  hour  to  it,  if  you  had  been  generous ; 
you  wouldn't  have  missed  it  from  your  pinafores." 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  a  perfect  day.  How  many, 
many  we  have  had  this  lovely  summer !" 

"  If  this  should  be  the  last,"  he  said,  "  should  you  be 
very  sorry?" 

"  Why  should  it  be  the  last  ?  There  is  a  week  left 
of  August.  And  Sophia  may  give  us  a  respite  for 
September,  that  is,  if  the  nursery  stove  can  be  made  to 
draw  respectably." 

I  was  so  unused  to  fencing  and  parrying,  and  being, 
as  he  said,  insincere,  that  the  horse  went  much  too 
slowly  for  me,  and  I  feared  every  word  that  my  com 
panion  uttered.  He  saw  it,  I  think,  and  was  silent. 
When  we  got  out  at  the  cottage  gate,  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  little  sigh  : 

"  Well,  it  has  been  a  nice  day,  if  you  haven't  a  good 
word  to  say  for  it." 


TWO    GRAY     EGGS    IN    THE    SAND.  167 

Now  I  was  inside  my  own  gate,  I  felt  at  liberty  to 
praise  it.  "  It  has  been  a  nice  day  ;  I  never  denied  it. 
It  has  been  the  nicest — in  the  world." 

"It  might  have  been  half  an  hour  longer,  and  no 
body  the  poorer,"  he  said,  a  little  wistfully. 

"When  he  was  gone,  and  I  was  alone  in  my  room,  I 
couldn't  help  thinking — a  little,  and  my  thoughts  did 
not  please  me.  What  if  I  had  been  sowing,  all  this 
idle  summer,  that  of  which  the  harvest  would  be  bitter 
and  grievous  ?  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  I  did  not  want  to 
think.  I  untied  the  handkerchief  from  about  my 
throat,  and  smoothed  it  out,  with  a  strange  sort  of 
sensation,  as  my  fingers  passed  over  the  delicate  fabric. 
The  initials  I  bent  down  to  study  by  the  light.  They 
were  entwined  in  a  very  intricate  monogram.  There 
were  four  letters  ;  but  how  to  arrange  them  I  did  not 
know.  There  was  an  M  and  a  B.  These  were  the  only  fa 
miliar  ones.  I  had  believed  his  Christian  name  to  be  Ber 
nard  ;  I  had  always  seen  him  write  his  initials  B.  M. ; 
here  was  certainly,  in  addition,  an  L  and  a  C.  Who 
was  this  man,  who  had  come  so  near  me  ;  with  whom  I 
was  on  these  familiar,  easy  terms  of  friendship  ;  happy, 
if  I  could  satisfy  myself  and  him,  that  we  were  not  on 
any  other  terms  ?  A  self -reproachful  confusion  reigned 
in  my  mind.  I  could  not  have  told  exactly  what  I  re 
proached  myself  for ;  but  it  seemed  natural,  as  things 
were  wrong,  that  I  had  done  something  wrong  as  my 
share  of  the  matter. 

But  these  reflections,  intangible,  and,  in  a  way,  of 
the  imagination,  were  swiftly  put  to  flight.  From  the 
open  door  of  the  nursery  came  a  sound,  terrible  always 
to  my  ear,  the  barking  cough  of  croup.  My  heart  sank, 
with  a  sort  of  sick  faintness,  as  I  threw  down  the  hand- 


168         TWO  GRAY  EGGS  IX  THE  SAND. 

kerchief  which  I  still  held,  and  hurried  to  the  nursery. 
I  knew  what  it  meant.  Poor  Baby's  tea-party  on  the 
beach  might  cost  her  dear.  Her  little  white  dress  I 
knew  had  felt  damp,  when  I  had  put  her  in  the  cart 
with  the  colonel.  Over  it,  she  had  had  but  a  light 
flannel  sack,  which  we  had  taken  her  out  in  at  noon 
day.  Of  course  her  shoes  must  have  been  wet,  for  she 
had  been  playing  close  down  by  the  waves  all  the  after 
noon.  Against  my  self -accusations  I  had  to  put  the 
fact  that  she  had  gone  through  the  same  exposure  many 
times  before,  without  any  apparent  ill  result.  I  had 
grown  careless  because  the  children  had  been  so  steadily 
well  all  summer.  I  was  tortured  witli  the  recollection 
of  her,  so  bright  and  eager,  in  Macnally's  arms,  leaning 
down  to  put  the  last  stick  on  the  fire,  before  she  was 
sent  home.  Her  little  white  dress  and  red  sack,  and 
bare  kicking  legs,  with  short  stockings  crumpled  down 
over  the  tops  of  her  shoes,  had  made  such  a  pretty, 
droll  picture  in  the  firelight.  Then  he  had  tossed  her 
above  his  head,  and  carried  her  on  his  shoulder  to  put 
her  in  the  cart  beside  the  colonel.  Pretty  Baby !  that 
was  only  three  or  four  hours  ago,  and  here  she  lay, 
fevered,  restless,  choked  by  this  fierce,  destroying 
malady. 

"  Sophia,"  I  whispered  in  terror,  catching  her  arm, 
for  she  was  sitting  by  the  bed,  "  tell  me  if  you  think 
she  will  get  over  it — " 

"  You  won't  deserve  it  if  she  does,"  she  muttered, 
shaking  off  my  hand. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  NEST  IN  THE  CEDAR  TKEE. 

"  Oh,  that  the  year  were  ever  vernal, 
And  lovers'  youthful  dreams  eternal  1" 

Song  of  the  Bell. 

<;  But  all  things  carry  the  heart's  messages, 

And  know  it  not,  nor  doth  the  heart  well  know, 

But  Nature  hath  her  will ;  -" 

Lowell. 

I  DID  not  take  off  my  clothes  that  night,  nor  did 
Sophia.  What  made  our  watch  the  more  anxious, 
was  the  fact  that  we  were  alone  in  the  house.  The  In 
dian  woman,  who  was  our  cook  and  general  servant, 
had  many  calls  from  her  family  and  her  tribe,  and  was 
continually  asking  leave  to  be  away  for  a  night  or  for  a 
day  or  two.  The  day  before,  she  had  gone,  to  be 
away  two  nights  and  a  day.  We  had  felt  always  very 
secure  and  comfortable,  but  this  sudden  visitation  of 
illness  showed  us  how  unsafe  it  was.  Sophia  was  very 
well  skilled  in  the  care  of  this  disease.  Baby  had  had 
several  attacks,  more  or  less  severe,  during  her  little 
life.  She  knew  what  remedies  to  apply,  and  had  the 
nerve  to  wait  calmly  for  their  effect.  I  was  unnerved 
and  terrified,  and  begged  her  to  go  and  get  a  doctor. 
None  lived  near  us ;  it  would  have  been  madness  for 
her  to  leave  the  child  and  go  out  at  midnight  for  one. 
And  as  for  me,  I  could  scarcely  have  brought  myself  to 
8  £169] 


170  TIIE    NEST    IN    THE    CEDAK    THEE. 

quit  the  sight  of  the  suffering  little  face.  I  obeyed  her 
orders  as  calmly  as  I  could,  and  submitted  to  give  up 
the  doctor. 

Before  day-break,  the  child  was  much  relieved. 
When  it  was  light  enough,  Sophia  went  away  for  the 
doctor,  leaving  me  with  many  charges  what  to  do  and 
what  to  avoid  doing.  She  looked  back  uneasily  more 
than  once,  as  if  she  scarcely  dared  trust  the  child  with 
rne  alone.  I  couldn't  blame  her ;  1  was  in  agonies  of 
self-reproach. 

The  remedies  that  she  had  applied  seemed  to  have 
been  all-sufficient.  The  doctor  added  nothing  to  what 
had  been  already  effected.  The  morning  was  cloudy, 
and  finally  rainy.  By  noon  the  Baby  seemed  as  well  as 
ever,  sitting  up  in  her  crib,  and  domineering  over  us 
all.  I  was  not  allowed  to  feel  easy  about  her,  for  both 
the  doctor  and  Sophia  predicted  a  return  of  the  trouble 
after  night-fall.  It  was  a  wretched  Jay.  I  could  not  eat, 
and  even  the  watch  of  the  night  just  past  failed  to  make 
me  want  to  sleep.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  leave 
the  nursery,  nor  to  take  my  eyes  off  poor  Baby.  When 
I  heard  voices  below,  I  shut  the  door,  and  sent  Maidy 
to  tell  whoever  had  come  that  Baby  was  ill,  and  I 
couldn't  leave  her. 

The  rain  pelted  steadily  all  the  afternoon  against 
the  window  panes ;  night  gathered  outside,  and  with 
it  thickened  my  gloomy  apprehensions.  This  time  we 
were  not  alone.  An  Irishwoman,  who  lived  in  a  lonely 
shanty  a  mile  or  two  away,  often  came  to  us  to  supple 
ment  the  Shinnecock  ;  she  had  the  reputation  of  being 
half  crazed,  but  we  had  always  found  her  industrious 
and  faithful.  She  was  persuaded,  after  her  day's  work 
was  over,  to  stay  with  us  all  night,  and  be  ready  to  go 


THE    NEST     IN     THE     CEDAK     TREE.  171 

for  the  doctor,  or  render  any  assistance  outside  the 
room.  I  do  not  think  she  slept  much,  though  she  was 
given  a  bed  in  the  garret.  I  heard  her  moving  about 
at  intervals  all  night,  and,  once  when  I  went  down  into 
the  kitchen  for  hot  water,  I  found  her  there,  muttering 
to  herself,  and  mixing  some  unknown  substances  to 
gether  in  a  bowl.  She  gave  me  a  suspicious  look 
when  I  came  in,  and  directly  threw  the  mixture  out 
of  the  open  window,  by  which,  notwithstanding  the 
rain,  she  stood. 

"  I  don't  half  like  Ann  Day's  look  to-night,"  I  said 
to  Sophia,  when  I  came  back  to  the  nursery  with  the 
hot  water.  "Don't  people  say  she's  unsettled  in  her 
mind  ?" 

"  She's  got  more  sense  than  half  the  people  that 
think  they've  got  their  wits,"  returned  Sophia  suc 
cinctly,  and  dismissed  the  subject. 

The  night,  which  had  begun  with  such  gloom  and 
apprehension,  wore  on  to  midnight,  and  then  to  dawn, 
and  still  Baby  slept  peacefully.  When  the  faint  light 
of  day  crept  into  the  eastern  window,  and  I  felt  the 
cool  moisture  on  her  little  forehead,  and  listened  to  the 
even  breath  that  passed  her  parted  lips,  I  almost  cried  for 
joy,  and  for  relief  from  terror.  Sophia  had  acted  all 
night  as  if  another  attack  were  inevitable,  and  now  the 
day  had  come,  and  she  was  well.  I  threw  myself  on 
the  bed  beside  her,  and,  worn  out  by  my  two  nights  of 
watching,  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  broad  day  ;  Maidy  was  dressed, 
and  eating  her  breakfast  by  the  window  ;  Baby  was  sit 
ting  up  in  her  crib,  unnumbered  toys  before  her ;  So 
phia  was  tidying  up  the  room,  not  in  the  quietest  man 
ner. 


172  THE    NEST    IN    THE    CEDAR    THEE. 

Maidy  ran  to  kiss  me  :  "  Mamma,  we  have  made  all 
sorts  of  noises  and  you  wouldn't  wake." 

I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  leaned 
over  to  kiss  Baby.  The  past  hours  of  dread  seemed  to 
me  all  like  a  black  nightmare.  Had  there  ever  been  a 
danger  that  I  should  lose  one  of  these,  my  treasures  ?  But 
in  the  rebound  I  did  not  lose  the  consciousness  of  what 
I  had  resolved,  and  promised  to  myself  ever  to  keep 
before  me.  Baby,  with  an  unwonted  tenderness,  laid 
her  soft  cheek  against  mine,  as  I  leaned  over  the  rail  of 
the  crib.  Maidy  patted  Baby's  chestnut  curls,  and 
then  smoothed  my  disordered  hair.  "My  pretty 
mamma,"  she  said,  putting  an  arm  around  my  neck. 
"  My  pretty  babies,"  I  murmured,  holding  them  in  one 
close  embrace. 

"  Come  to  your  breakfast,  Maidy,"  said  Sophia,  in 
a  sharp  key.  "  These  things  can't  be  kept  about  all 
day." 

I  kissed  her  again,  and  she  slid  down  from  the  bed,  and 
went  submissively  to  her  bowl  of  bread  and  milk.  She 
looked  back  at  us  rather  wistfully,  however.  Sophia 
did  not  quite  dare  to  send  me  away,  but  she  threw  dark 
glances  towards  me,  as  I  sat  on  the  bed,  leaning  over 
Baby's  crib,  and  playing  with  her.  I  can't  say  Sophia  felt 
defeated  ;  that  would  be  saying  a  harsh  thing,  for  she 
loved  Baby  most  devotedly.  But  she  felt  as  if  my 
punishment  had  been  a  petty  farce,  compared  with  my 
deserts ;  I  had  been  let  oif  too  light  by  fate.  She  had 
grown  so  jealous,  I  think  she  was  jealous  of  the  favor 
that  she  thought  I  seemed  to  have  found  with  Heaven. 

I  could  afford  to  be  magnanimous;  so  I  got  up 
soon,  not  to  annoy  her  further,  and  went  away  to  dress 
myself.  The  weather  outside  was  dull  and  gray.  The 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  CEDAR  TREE.        173 

storm  had  subsided  in  the  night ;  the  wind  had  dried  the 
earth  a  good  deal ;  but  now  it  had  fallen,  and  a  silence 
brooded,  and  a  sullen  sky  frowned  overhead;  it  was 
anything  but  joyful,  but  my  heart  was  so  eased  I  did 
not  feel  it. 

Later  in  the  morning,  Sophia  put  Baby  to  sleep  in 
her  crib,  turning  me  and  Maidy  out  of  the  nursery. 
We  went  into  my  sleeping-room,  which  was  in  the  rear 
of  the  parlor,  and  I  sat  by  the  window  with  some  work, 
while  Maidy  played  with  her  dolls  beside  me.  Pres 
ently  Sophia  looked  in  to  say  that  she  had  to  go  down 
stairs  to  prepare  something  in  the  kitchen ;  she  had  left 
the  nursery  door  ajar  :  I  could  listen.  The  nursery  was 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house,  behind  the  dining- 
room  ;  to  reach  it,  one  had  to  cross  an  open  sort  of  place, 
unceiled  and  rather  dark.  There  were  beams  over 
head,  and  the  sides  were  boarded  up ;  several  old  wooden 
chests  stood  in  it,  in  which  we  kept  blankets  and  bed 
ding.  A  flight  of  stairs  descended  to  the  kitchen  from 
it.  Across  this  dark  space  I  made  my  way,  once  and 
again,  to  see  if  Baby  were  all  right.  Once  I  almost 
stumbled  over  Ann  Day  fumbling  about  outside 
Baby's  door,  who  said  she  had  been  looking  for  the 
clothes-pins. 

Baby  slept  long  and  peacefully.  I  went  back  to 
my  sewing  by  the  window.  The  air  came  in  from 
across  a  leaden  sea ;  Maidy  leaned  her  head  down  on 
the  window-sill ;  we  were  watching  a  nest  of  king-birds 
in  a  scraggy  cedar  tree  that  grew  a  few  feet  from  the 
window.  The  scant  foliage  of  the  cedar  was  supple 
mented  by  a  Virginia  creeper  that  had  grown  over  it, 
and  hung  from  all  its  twisted  limbs.  In  one  of  the 
crotches  of  this  tree  a  pair  of  king-birds  had  built  a 


174  THE    NEST    IN    THE    CEDAR    TREE. 

nest  and  reared  a  brood.  Two  only  of  the  young  ones 
were  left  in  the  nest.  We  had  watched  them  from  the 
window  often.  While  we  were  talking  about  them.  I 

o  * 

heard  a  gate  opening  from  the  farm-yard,  and  steps  ap 
proaching.  There  was  a  lane  which  led  up  from  Old* 
Town  Pond,  about  a  mile  away,  which  crossed  our 
empty  farm-yard ;  not  unf requently  people  came  that 
way,  and  crossed  our  premises.  The  place  had  been 
unoccupied  so  long,  the  villagers  had  got  into  the  habit. 
So  I  did  not  look  up  or  notice  till  Maidy  called  out,  as 
the  steps  paused  below  the  window,  and  her  eyes  turned 
from  the  tree  to  the  ground, 

"  Oh,  there's  Mr.  Macnally  and  Ned ;  mamma,  mayn't 
I  go  down  ?" 

"No,  no,"  I  said  quickly,  then  looked  out.  Mr. 
Macnally  stood  with  his  cap  off,  making  a  low  salaam  to 
Maidy.  He  had  his  fishing-rod  over  his  shoulder,  and 
a  creel.  Ned  had  the  same  indications  of  his  calling. 
He  contented  himself  with  saying  good-morning,  and 
tramped  away  across  the  garden,  and  went  towards 
home. 

"  I  hopo  Baby  is  better,"  said  Mr.  Macnally,  stand 
ing  below  the  window. 

"  Oh,  she  is  almost  well,  I  hope ;  she's  asleep  now." 

"You  had  a  great  fright,  I  am  afraid." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  I  returned,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
There  was  a  little  silence ;  I  was  thinking  what  an  age 
it  seemed  since  we  had  driven  home  in  the  moonlight, 
and  of  all,  inward  and  outward,  that  had  passed  since 
then.  He  was  thinking — who  can  tell  what  ?  He  did 
not  seem  exactly  his  easy,  merry  self,  though  he  tried 
hard  to  counterfeit  it. 

"  I  have  brought  you  something,  Maidy,"  he  said, 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  CEDAR  TREE.        175 

after  a  minute  ;  "  a  lot  of  treasures  from  the  beacli  that 
I  picked  \m  this  morning — a  baby  horse-foot,  two  little 
crabs,  and  the  prettiest  scallop  shells  you  ever  yet  be 
hold.  See,  they  are  all  here  in  my  creel.  I  haven't 
caught  a  fish,  while  Ned  has  got  a  dozen." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  let  me  go  down  and  get  them  !"  cried 
the  child. 

"  No,  no,  Maicly,  it  is  too  damp  for  you.  Mr.  Mac- 
nally  will  leave  them  on  the  front  steps,  arid  Sophia 
will  bring  them  to  you  by  and  by." 

"  Sophia  will  break  them,"  cried  the  child,  all  in 
tears.  "  She  threw  away  the  last  shells  that  he  brought 
me  ;  she  said  I  never  should  bring  one  of  them  in  the 
house  if  she  could  help  it." 

A  swift  red  overspread  my  face,  while  I  tried  to 
stop  the  child's  tears. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Macnally,  coloring,  I  fear,  a  little 
too.  "  I'm  sorry  that  I  suggested  them.  See  here, 
Maidy,  you  can  reach  them  if  you  try." 

He  swung  himself  up  into  the  old  cedar,  and,  sitting 
on  a  branch  that  brought  him  about  on  a  level  with  the 
window,  reached  out  his  hand  and  gave  her,  one  after 
another,  the  beloved  treasures.  She  stretched  out  both 
little  hands  and  grasped,  first  the  crab,  then  the  horse- 
foot,  then  the  scallop  shells,  one  by  one,  laughing, 
almost  shrieking,  with  delight,  the  tears  still  shining  on 
her  cheeks.  Macnally  looked  eager  and  happy  while 
he  was  gratifying  her  ;  he  stretched  forward,  steadying 
himself  by  one  hand  on  a  branch  above,  a  lithe  and 
graceful  and  almost  boyish  figure. 

But  while  he  was  giving  her  the  last  shell,  we  became 
aware  of  a  tumult  in  the  tree  above  his  head.  Sharp 
cries  from  the  parent  birds  filled  the  air ;  first  one,  and 


176  THE    XEST    IN    THE    CEDAR    TREE. 

then  the  other,  flew  at  him,  grazing  his  head  in  their 
flight,  pecking  at  him,  and  obliging  him  to  defend  him 
self  with  both  hands. 

''  The  little  vixens,"  he  cried.  "  What  are  they 
about  2" 

"  The  nest,  the  nest !"  screamed  Maidy,  her  smiles 
extinguished. 

"  There's  a  nest  with  two  young  birds  just  above 
your  head,"  I  explained. 

"  I'm  trespassing,  am  I,"  he  said,  letting  himself 
down  to  the  ground  lightly,  and  looking  up.  "  I'm 
afraid  they're  the  ghosts  of  the  plovers'  eggs.  Mafoi, 
but  that  smallest  one  has  got  a  temper !  I  think  her 
first  name  must  begin  with  S,"  he  exclaimed,  dodg 
ing  another  attack. 

"  Why  must  her  name  begin  with  S  ?"  demanded 
Maidy,  open-eyed. 

"  Because  she's  savage,"  he  returned. 

It  was  really  a  curious  sight,  the  wrath  and 
courage  of  those  two  tiny  creatures  defending  their 
young.  Mr.  Macnally  drew  back  a  little  from  the  tree, 
and  gathered  up  his  rod  and  creel.  At  this  moment 
Ann  Day  came  out  from  the  rear  door  of  the  kitchen, 
with  a  basket  of  clothes  to  hang  out.  One  end  of  the 
rope  was  fastened  to  a  branch  of  this  same  tree.  As 
she  approached  quite  near  us,  I  said, 

"  Take  care,  Ann  ;  don't  shake  the  tree ;  there  is  a 
nest  of  young  birds  in  it,  and  the  mother  bird  is  afraid 
that  somebody  is  going  to  hurt  her  young  ones.  She 
is  flying  about  in  such  distress;  listen  to  her;  poor 
thing,  it  makes  my  heart  ache  for  her." 

The  woman  was  a  low,  thick-set  Irishwoman ;  her 
features  were  coarse,  but  her  expression  kindly.  She 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  CEDAR  TREE.        177 

had  light-blue  eyes,  which  were  restless,  but  not  ex 
pressive,  ordinarily.  She  looked  up  when  I  began  to 
speak,  with  her  usual  uninterested  manner,  but  when 
she  saw  the  nest,  and  the  birds  circling  above  it,  and 
heard  my  explanation,  a  deep  flush  came  over  her  face, 
and  an  angry  light  was  emitted  from  her  eyes.  She 
stooped  over  her  basket  of  clothes,  muttering  to  herself. 
Her  hands  shook ;  I  almost  thought  I  heard  a  curse, 
and  drew  Maidy  back  from  the  window.  She  pulled 
out  some  article  from  the  basket,  and  attempted  to  hang 
it  up  upon  the  line,  but,  not  succeeding,  tore  it  down 
and  threw  it  upon  the  ground,  scattering  the  box  of 
clothes-pins  at  her  feet,  and  with  a  lowering  look  to 
wards  the  birds,  went  muttering  away. 

"  Have  I  done  anything  to  offend  her  ?"  said  Mac- 
nally,  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said  smiling,  looking  after  her,  as  she 
disappeared  from  sight  behind  the  barn. 

"  Who  has  done  anything,  and  what,  may  I  ask, 
does  it  mean  ?" 

"  Poor  Ann  !"  I  said,  with  a  sigh.  "  She  has  had  a 
sad  history,  as  far  as  I  can  gather  it.  She  has  told  me  a 
little,  and  the  Indian  and  Sophia  have  got  more  from 
her.  She  went  to  the  West  Indies  when  she  was  a 
young  woman,  to  wait  upon  an  officer's  wife,  and  natu 
rally,  after  a  year  or  two,  married  a  soldier." 

"  And  quite  as  naturally,  after  a  year  or  two,  he  de 
serted  her,  I  suppose." 

"  Exactly  ;  leaving  her  with  one  child.  I  don't  know 
how  she  happened  to  come  to  the  United  States  ;  but 
for  some  reason  she  did.  The  child  was  a  great  burden 
to  her,  though  I  am  sure  she  loved  it  very  much.  I 
fancy  her  great  desire  was  to  earn  money  to  go  back 
8* 


178  THE    NEST    IX    THE    CEDAR    TEEE. 

to  Ireland,  and  the  child  was  in  the  way  of  her  going 
out  to  work  by  the  day,  and  if  she  took  a  place  at  ser 
vice,  she  couldn't  get  wages  enough  to  do  more  than 
support  it  at  board.  Then  somebody  suggested  to  her 
to  put  it  in  an  institution  of  charity.  I  can't  get  out  of 
her  what  the  name  of  it  was  ;  I  don't  believe  she  really 
knows  herself.  At  any  rate,  she  put  it  there,  wher 
ever  it  was,  and  took  a  place  at  service,  and  earned  good 
wages  for  a  year  or  two,  and  put  the  money  into  a 
savings-bank.  Poor  soul ;  she  has  the  bank-book  now, 
and  showed  it  to  me.  She  won't  use  it,  for  she  thinks 
it  is  blood-money." 

"What  does  blood-money  mean,  inamma?"  said 
Maidy,  pressing  eagerly  against  me. 

"  I  had  forgotten  you,  Maidy.  Well,  it  meant  this 
time,  that  it  was  the  price  she  paid  for  her  little  girl's 
life." 

"Did  she  sell  her?"  said  Maidy,  in  awestruck  tones. 

"  Not  exactly,  but  she  feels  as  if  she  had.  For,  one 
day,  when  she  got  liberty  to  go  and  see  the  child,  she 
found  it  had  been  dead  for  several  weeks,  and  was 
buried  in  the  pauper  burying-ground." 

"  Poor  soul,"  said  Macnally,  with  a  sigh. 

"  They  hadn't  taken  the  trouble  to  warn  her  of  its 
illness,  though  they  had  her  name  and  address.  And 
some  underling  told  her  it  had  been  ill-treated  and  neg 
lected,  which  may  have  been  true,  or  may  not.  All 
that  was  left  to  her  was  the  little  bundle  of  clothes 
which  the  child  had  worn  when  she  took  it  there.  This 
they  gave  her  back,  pinned  up,  and  marked  systemati 
cally  with  her  name.  She  brought  it  over  one  day 
and  opened  it  and  showed  me  the  clothes.  There  was 
a  little  faded  pink  calico  frock ;  she  stroked  it  with  her 


'  THE    NEST    IN    THE    CEDAK    TREE.  179 

hands,  and  said,  'me  foine  ghirl  !  me  foine  ghirl !'  She 
never  went  back  to  her  place,  but  wandered  about  the 
streets  for  days,  carrying  the  little  bundle ;  her  intellect 
quite  shattered.  I  suppose  she  must  have  been  taken 
up  by  the  police  and  committed  to  some  asylum.  After 
that  she  doesn't  seem  to  be  able  to  give  any  account 
of  herself  that  is  at  all  coherent.  She  is  quite  reason 
able  on  every  other  subject,  and  is  an  excellent  worker. 
I  suppose  they  found  she  was  fit  to  set  at  large,  and  so 
dismissed  her  from  the  asylum." 

"  How  did  she  wander  up  here  ?" 

"I  can't  imagine.  I  have  often  wondered.  But  it 
was  the  very  place  for  her ;  the  quiet  and  the  total  ab 
sence  of  all  associations.  The  neighbors  are  kind  to 
her,  and  she  gets  a  good  deal  of  work.  Her  tumble 
down  little  house,  though,  is  in  an  awfully  lonely  situa 
tion.  I've  feared  sometimes  some  tramp  would  mur 
der  her  for  her  little  hoardings.  Ann  loves  to  hoard, 
poor  soul ;  her  calamity  didn't  cure  her  of  it." 

" Is  she  capable  of  doing  a  servant's  work?  Can  she 
understand  orders  given  her,  and  all  that?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  as  well  as  any  one ;  except  when  something 
upsets  her — seeing  children,  or  something  like  that,  she 
is  quite  the  best  servant  that  I've  had  in  a  long  lime." 

"What  has  set  her  off  to-day  ?" 

"  Well,  I  have  an  idea  that  yesterday  she  was  stirred 
up  by  hearing  Sophia  talk  of  Baby's  illness,  and  seeing 
my  agitation ;  and  just  now,  it  was  the  sight  of  the 
mother  bird's  distress  about  her  young  ones.  I  saw  the 
blood  rush  into  her  face  the  moment  I  called  her  atten 
tion  to  it,  and  her  poor  dull  eyes  grew  so  troubled,  and 
then  so  fierce.  I'm  sorry  I  spoke  to  her  about  it.  I 
ought  to  have  known  better." 


180        THE  NEST  IN  THE  CEDAE  TREE. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  possibly  could  have  known  bet 
ter,  or,  indeed,  could  have  guessed  what  troubled  her 
at  all." 

"  Yon  would  see,  if — if  you  were  a  mother,"  and  I 
stroked  Maidy's  head  as  she  leaned  out  of  the  win 
dow. 

"  The  maternal  instinct,  I  confess,  baffles  me  in 
some  of  its  developments — that,  for  instance,"  he  added, 
as  one  of  the  birds  swooped  above  his  head  again. 
"What  have  I  done  to  call  for  that ?" 

"  Leaned  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  I  am  afraid." 
,  "  Ah  !    "Well,  I  don't  seem  to  be  popular  here.     I 
think  I'd  better  be  taking  myself  off." 

And  shouldering  his  rod,  and  kissing  his  hand  to 
Maidy,  he  went  away  through  the  garden,  leaping  the 
fence,  and  striking  off  across  the  fields. 

That  afternoon,  late,  Sophia  came  into  the  nursery, 
where  I  was  sitting  with  the  children ;  she  held  out 
two  dead  birds,  with  necks  wrung,  heads  dangling. 
"See  what  I  found  under  the  nest,"  she  said,  with  a 
tone  of  triumph.  Maidy  gave  a  cry,  and  bursting  into 
tears,  hid  her  face  in  my  dress.  "  Sophia ! "  I  cried, 
reproachfully,  "  how  can  you  torture  the  child  so  ? " 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  tossing  her  head,  "  I  didn't 
kill  the  birds  ;  you  needn't  reproach  me.  Go  to  them 
that  did." 

"  I  should,  with  pleasure,  if  I  knew  whom  to  go  to. 
It  was  a  cruel  thing.  The  poor  mother  bird,  how  she 
must  be  grieving  now  1 " 

"  Well,  you  won't  have  far  to  go." 

I  knew,  by  a  certain  inflection  of  her  voice,  that 
always  made  itself  apparent  when  she  spoke  of  Mac- 
nally,  that  she  meant  him.  I  could  almost  have  laughed 


THE  NEST  IN  THE  CEDAR  TREE.        181 

at  her  persistent  malice.  I  soothed  Maidy,  and  insisted 
on  Sophia's  taking  the  birds  out  of  sight  at  once.  I  did 
not  feel  that  I  ever  wanted  to  look  out  of  my  window 
again,  at  the  old  cedar  tree.  A  little  thought  made  me 
sure  to  whom  the  poor  birds  owed  their  death. 


CHAPTEE  XY/ 

A  DAY   OF   RECKONING. 

"  Who  is  spendthrift  to  passion, 
Is  debtor  to  thought." 

AS  the  day  drew  to  a  close,  it  grew  duller  rather 
-£X.  than  brighter.  I  felt  a  longing  for  fresh  air, 
after  my  two  days'  confinement  to  the  house.  Baby  was 
as  well  as  a  baby  could  be,  and  was  having  her  tea  in 
the  nursery  with  Maidy.  There  was  nothing  to  keep 
me  in  the  house  ;  so,  wrapping  myself  in  a  rain  cloak, 
and  drawing  the  hood  over  my  head,  I  went  out  into 
the  twilight.  I  purposely  avoided  the  road  and  the 
direction  in  which  I  might  possibly  meet  any  one,  and 
followed  the  lane  that  led  to  the  Old  Town  Pond — a 
lonely  enough  lane,  with  neither  tree  nor  habitation  on 
its  whole  length.  A  quick  walk  in  the  damp  wind 
seemed  to  me  what  I  needed  to  steady  my  nerves  and 
shake  off  the  overpowering  depression  that  I  had  been 
feeling  all  day. 

The  landscape  was  almost  shrouded  by  the  twilight 
and  by  a  faint  mist  blowing  in  from  sea.  Walking  ex 
hilarated  me  a  little  ;  I  went  on  and  on,  till  I  reached 
the  pond,  and  the  road  that  led  from  it  down  to  the 
sea.  This  road  I  followed,  and  soon  stood  on  the  sand, 
and  heard,  rather  than  saw,  the  waves  that,  under  the 
mist,  were  rolling  in  upon  the  beach.  The  tide  was 
[182] 


A    DAT    OF    RECKONING.  183 

low ;  the  wind  was  off  the  shore,  and  was  beating  down 
the  surf,  which  broke  on  the  sand  with  a  sort  of  wail. 

It  was  a  lonely  spot,  a  mile  from  any  house  ;  but  I 
wasn't  in  a  mood  to  feel  afraid.  Some  fish-houses 
stood  a  little  back  from  the  beach  ;  my  walk  had  tired 
me,  and  I  sat  down  in  the  shelter  of  one  of  them  to 
rest.  The  reaction  from  my  rapid  walking,  the  moan 
ing  of  the  sea,  and  the  dreary  loneliness  of  the  spot, 
overcame  me,  and  putting  my  head  down  on  my  hands, 
the  tears  that  I  had  been  fighting  against  all  day  came 
to  my  relief.  Yes,  the  harvest  was  ended,  the  day  of 
reckoning  had  come,  and  I  was  wakening  from  my  long 
and  happy  dream.  No  more  summer  seas  for  me ;  no 
more  blue  morning  skies,  and  tender-tinted  evening 
ones.  Life  must  begin  again  in  bitter  earnest.  The 
sea  might  well  make  moan  for  what  was  gone. 

As  I  lifted  -my  head  for  a  moment  with  a  despair 
ing  sort  of  weariness,  I  heard  voices :  one  was  a  wo 
man's,  so  I  had  no  sensation  of  fear,  but  only  drew  back 
more  in  the  shelter  of  the  fish-house  to  escape  attention. 
I  listened  rather  anxiously,  however,  till  they  should  pass, 
and  I  be  free  again.  It  was  unexpected  seeing  any  one 
here  in  so  lonely  a  place.  Presently  the  voices  came 
nearer,  and  paused  not  four  feet  from  me.  I  recog 
nized  the  colonel's  voice,  and  Mrs.  Emlyn's.  It  was 
not  unnatural  that  they  should  be  here,  as  they  were 
both  good  walkers,  and  often  went  on  foot  several  miles 
from  home  together  when  the  weather  was  as  cool  as 
this ;  but  it  was  unfortunate  that  they  should  have  como 
here.  How  could  I  command  my  voice,  and  not  show 
traces  of  my  not  yet  past  emotion  ?  I  sat  still,  hoping 
they  would  pass  on  and  not  see  me.  Mrs.  Ernlyn  gave 
a  long  breath  of  fatigue,  and  sat  down  on  a  boat  just 


184:  A    DAT     OF     RECKONING. 

around  the  angle  of  the  fish-house.  "We  could  not  see 
each  other  for  the  mist  and  darkness,  but  their  voices 
would  have  been  distinct  if  they  had  whispered. 

"How  long  have  you  suspected  this?"  said  Mrs. 
Emlyn. 

"  How  long  ?  Oh,  I  can't  say.  Ever  since  Bough- 
ton  was  here,  I  think.  I  believe  he  put  the  idea  in  my 
head  originally." 

"  It's  a  wretched  piece  of  business.  Why  haven't 
you  given  me  a  hint  of  it  ?"  she  said,  testily. 

"  I  should  think  that,  being  a  woman,  you  could 
have  seen  it  yourself." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  a  woman  to  go  about,  poking  into 
other  women's  hearts  and  imagining  love  affairs.  I 
thought  you  knew  me  well  enough  for  that.  How 
should  I  be  likely  to  think  that  a  woman  who  couldn't 
bear  even  the  faintest  allusion  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
a  widow,  and  who  didn't  seem  to  care  for  anything  but 
her  little  children,  was  ready  to  be  fallen  in  love  with 
by  the  first  man  she  met  ?" 

"  One  sees  plenty  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  world." 

"  Well,  thank  heaven !  I'm  not  in  the  world,  and 
never  mean  to  be.  It's  a  man's  judgment  you've 
made,  not  a  woman's.  I  don't  believe  she  has  an  idea 
of  this  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  she  mayn't  have,  but  I'm  much 
afraid  I'm  right.  Macnally's  a  taking  sort  of  fellow ; 
we've  shown  the  poor  young  thing  scant  kindness  in 
throwing  them  so  much  together." 

"  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  being  afraid  of 
Ned.  One  seems  about  as  much  of  a  boy  to  me  as  the 
other." 

"  Ah,  well,  you  are  discriminating." 


A    DAY    OF    RECKONING.  185 

"  There's  such  a  thing  as  being  too  discriminating. 
I,  for  one,  believe  you've  made  altogether  a  mistake,  and 
that  she's  no  more  idea  of  his  infatuation  than  I  had, 
till  you  told  me." 

"  Time  will  show.  If  she  had  only,  now,  taken  it 
into  her  head  to  like  Boughton.  There  was  a  capital 
marriage  for  her.  But  women's  fancies  are  unaccount 
able." 

"  Hers  would  have  been,  if  she  had  fancied  him." 

"  How  if  you  find  she  has  fancied  Macnally  ?  Can 
you  account  for  a  woman  in  her  senses,  old  enough  to 
be  married  and  have  children,  sending  off  a  man  of  po 
sition  and  wealth,  like  Boughton,  and  setting  her  heart 
upon  a  fellow,  like  Macnally,  about  whom  she  knows 
absolutely  nothing,  except  that  he  hasn't  twopence  over 
and  above  his  salary  as  tutor  ?" 

"Macnally's  a  gentleman,  and  a  much  more  thorough 
one  than  Boughton,  even  if  I'm  not  discriminating.  I 
can  understand  a  woman  liking  him,  and  I  can't  under 
stand  her  liking  the  other." 

"  Macnally's  a  fascinating  fellow,  I  suppose ;  women 
always  like  that  sort  of  man.  I  confess  I've  a  great 
liking  for  him  myself.  lie's  the  best  tutor  that  we've 
ever  had,  and  an  agreeable  companion.  But  there 
are  some  things  that  I  acknowledge  I  don't  like  about 
him.  His  want  of  confidence  in  us,  first  of  all.  "What 
do  we  know  of  him?  Absolutely  nothing.  He  an 
swered  my  advertisement;  1  was  taken  with  him 
instantly.  It's  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  did  such 
a  thing — I  don't  know  whether  I  told  you — I  didn't  as'k 
any  reference  of  him." 

"  You  didn't  teJl  me,  indeed ;  I  should  never  have 


186  A    DAY    OF    RECKONING. 

heard  the  last  of  it  if  I  had  taken  a  servant  in  that 
way." 

"  "Well,  what's  done  is  done.  I  never  have  been 
troubled  about  it  till  this  perplexity  came  up,  and  I  be 
gan  to  feel  some  responsibility  about  this  poor  young 
widow.  We've  all  been  so  fond  of  him,  it  was  natural 
she  should  take  him  as  one  of  us.  We've  done  wrong, 
I'm  afraid.  I  shall  always  blame  myself." 

"  Wait  till  you  know  whether  there's  any  harm 
done." 

"  I  can't  understand,"  he  went  on,  "  how,  if  things 
were  all  right  with  him,  he  shouldn't  occasionally  speak 
to  us  of  his  people,  and  allude  in  some  way  to  the  past. 
But  it's  all  a  sealed  book.  I  don't  believe  he's  ever 
dropped  a  word." 

"  Nobody's  ever  asked  him,  maybe." 

"  I've  given  him  chances  enough.  Only  to-day  I 
took  occasion  to  approach  the  subject ;  I  got  nothing 
by  it.  He  seemed  almost  irritated.  I  verily  begin  to 
think  the  fellow's  nothing  but  an  adventurer.  What 
do  we  know  about  him  2" 

"  We  know  that  for  ten  months  he  has  been  faith 
ful  to  his  work,  and  a" gentleman,  and  irreproachable  in 
all  his  conduct ;  he  has  commanded  our  respect  and 
won  our  affection.  Adventurer  is  a  hard  word,  and  I 
am  glad  I'm  not  a  man,  to  pass  so  easily  a  judgment  so 
severe." 

And  she  got  up  and  moved  away. 

"  It  isn't  my  linal  judgment,"  said  her  husband, 
following  her.  '•  But  you  must  confess  things  are  not 
as  clear  as  day." 

And  their  voices  were  lost  to  me  as   they  walked 


A    DAY    OF    RECKONING.  '  187 

away  towards  home.  They  passed  within  two  feet  of 
where  I  sat,  crouched  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  fish- 
house.  I  had  not  had  the  daring,  nor,  indeed,  the 
strength,  to  go  away  after  I  had  found  they  were  talk 
ing  about  me.  I  was  so  trembling  and  agitated,  I  could 
not  have  got  away  without  being  recognized,  and  the 
idea  of  making  my  nearness  known  by  speaking  to  them 
was  quite  beyond  my  courage.  It  all  passed  so  quickly, 
too.  I  felt  numb  and  paralyzed.  Even  after  they 
were  gone,  I  felt  unable  to  get  up  and  go  towards 
home. 

"When  at  last  I  went,  it  was  quite  dark.  I  could 
scarcely  see  the  fence  before  me  when  I  reached  the 
lane.  The  ground  was  wet  with  dew ;  the  mist  came 
palpably  against  my  face ;  the  stones  and  ruts  hurt  my 
feet,  as  I  blundered  along  through  the  lane ;  briars 
caught  my  cloak  as  I  pushed  through  the  narrow  open 
ing  in  the  fence.  It  was  all  unspeakably  miserable  ;  a 
feeling  of  shame  sickened  me  ;  a  sense  of  disappoint 
ment  made  a  physical  weight  and  load  about  my  heart. 
They  need  not  have  been  worried  about  me ;  I  had 
found  out  what  they  guessed,  and  had  made  my  resolu 
tion  in  the  dark  hours  of  Baby's  illness.  But,  oh ! — 
but,  oh  !  that  they  might  never  know  —  ! 

Before  I  got  upon  my  feet  and  started  on  my  walk 
home,  I  had  come  to  one  conclusion  ;  the  something  to 
be  done,  that  is  the  only  solace  in  troubles  such  as  this, 
was  to  get  away  from  the  place  as  soon  as  might  be. 
I  had  even  in  my  mind  written  the  letter  to  the  agent 
about  the  rooms  we  wanted ;  I  had  decided  the  num 
ber  of  days  it  would  take  to  hear  from  him,  to  dis 
pose  of  the  packing,  to  prepare  the  children's  clothes. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  stimulus  of  this,  I  don't  quite 


A    DAY    OF    KECKOSTESTG. 

know  bow  I  should  have  got  back  along  the  length  of 
that  dark  lane. 

When  I  entered  the  house  I  left  my  damp  cloak  in 
the  kitchen,  and  went  up  and  tried  to  warm  myself  at 
the  parlor  rire.  The  Shinnecock,  now  returned  to  her 
duty,  brought  up  a  tray  of  tea,  and  set  it  for  me  on  a 
little  table,  near  the  lire.  The  children  had  gone  to  bed  ; 
I  heard  Sophia  singing  to  Baby  through  the  open  nur 
sery  door.  I  didn't  heed  my  tea,  which  stood  un 
touched,  steaming  away  its  fragrant  cheer,  but  pulled 
out  my  portfolio,  and  sat  down  by  the  light  to  write 
the  letter  to  the  agent  for  the  rooms.  I  had  not  fin 
ished  it  when  I  heard  Macnally's  quick,  light  step  on 
the  balcony,  outside,  and  a  knock,  though  the  doors 
were  open.  I  said,  come  in,  and  he  entered  with  a 
brio-liter,  more  eager  look  than  he  had  had  in  the  morn- 

O  J  O 

ing.  In  his  band  he  carried  quite  a  package  of  let 
ters. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  began.  "  I  don't  think  the  pinafore 
letter  has  arrived,  but  here  is  your  paper.  The  colonel 
has  got  quite  a  budget ;"  he  added,  his  face  almost  im 
perceptibly  losing  its  brightness.  Something  that  he 
had  meant  to  say,  he  had  not  said.  His  quick  eye,  no 
doubt,  had  taken  in,  at  a  glance,  that  there  was  some 
trouble ;  the  neglected  tea,  my  unhappy  face,  the  care 
less  condition  of  my  hair  and  dress  ;  and,  worse  than  all, 
the  inevitable  constraint  of  my  manner. 

"  You  were  writing,  and  I  disturbed  you,"  he  said, 
drawing  back  a  step  or  two. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  returned,  with  a  changing  color  that 
the  words  did  not  call  for.  "  I  have  nearly  finished  my 
letter  ;  it  can't  go  till  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Is  it  about  the  pinafore  ?    Or  has  something  else 


'   A    DAY    OF     BECKONING.  189 

turned  up,  of  interest  enough  in  life,  to  write  a  letter 
for  ? "  he  said,  with  a  little  smile,  emboldened,  per 
haps,  by  the  fluctuations  of  my  color.  My  face  must 
have  showed  that  he  had  unwittingly  said  something  that 
gave  me  a  sharp  pain,  for  he  added  quickly,  and  in  a 
voice  very  tender  with  feeling, 

"  I  am  afraid  Baby  is  worse.  I  am  afraid  you  think 
me  very  careless,  but  indeed  I  hoped  that  was  all  over, 
and  she  was  really  well." 

"  Baby  is  well,"  I  replied,  recovering  self-possession. 
"  I  really  am  quite  over  my  worry  about  her.  I  sup 
pose  I  feel  a  little  nervous  and  unsettled  still,  but  a 
night's  rest  will  put  that  all  right,  no  doubt." 

"  I  must  not  keep  you,  then,"  he  said,  uncomfort 
ably,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  It  is  past  nine  o'clock, 
and  you  have  been  awake  two  nights." 

He  pushed  away  the  chair  before  him,  refusing  to 
sit  down  ;  a  stick  rolled  forward  on  the  andirons,  and 
he  stooped  over  and  put  it  in  its  place  ;  he  stood  for 
a  moment,  resting  his  hand  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  had  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  said,  with  his 
face  turned  to  the  fire,  speaking  with  a  little  constraint. 
"  But  perhaps  I'd — I'd  better  put  it  off  till  you  have 
more  time  to  listen." 

I  didn't  answer ;  it  seemed  to  me  he  must  have 
heard  the  beating  of  my  heart.  But  he  heard  nothing, 
I  suppose,  and  the  silence  must  have  sent  a  chill 
through  him.  He  did  not  even  turn  and  look  towards 
me,  or  he  would  have  seen  an  agitation  that,  perhaps, 
would  have  seemed  less  cold.  At  last,  he  said,  in  a 
husky  sort  of  voice  : 

"  I  was  speaking  to  you  the  other  night  about  expect 
ing  letters.  Those  I  had  looked  for  have  arrived  to- 


190  A    DAY    OF    RECKONING. 

night.  There  was  one  of  them  I  wanted  to — to  tell  you 
about — and  show  you.  "Would  you  care  to  see  it  ?" 

As  he  said  this  he  lifted  his  head  suddenly  and  bent 
on  me  a  look  that  seemed  to  devour  me  with  its  inten 
sity.  I  had  a  feeling  of  terror.  I  looked  this  way  and 
that.  I  wanted  to  escape.  I  believe  I  gave  a  kind  of 
gasp,  and  then  bent  down  my  head  over  the  portfolio 
which  I  still  held  in  my  hand. 

"  I  will  not  force  it  upon  you,"  he  said,  in  an  un 
steady  voice,  as  he  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand.  "  I 
will  not  force  anything  upon  you." 

And  when  I  raised  my  head  again,  and  looked  up, 
lie  was  gone. 


N 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

THE  SEA  MAKES  MOAN. 

{<  Therefore  I  crave  for  scenes  which  might 

My  fettered  thoughts  unbind, 

And  where  the  elements  might  be 

Like  scapegoats  to  my  mind." 

Faber. 

AOMI  stood  at  the  nursery  door  knocking  the 
next  morning. 

"  May  I  come  in?"  she  said,  as  Maidy,  stretching  up 
to  the  latch,  opened  it  a  little  way. 

I  gave  assent  with  less  good-will  than  I  had  ever 
done  before  to  my  pretty  little  neighbor.  I  was  taking 
care  of  the  children  while  Sophia  ate  her  breakfast  and 
did  many  things  about  the  house  before  coming  to  re 
lieve  me.  She  insisted  that  Baby  must  still  be  kept  in 
her  room,  though  I  felt  certain  that  the  necessity  was 
past.  The  weather  was  quite  settled  now :  the  house 
was  intolerable.  I  was  so  irritable  that  I  could  scarcely 
speak  peaceably  to  the  little  emissary  from  Happy-go- 
lucky,  and  the  children's  many  demands  upon  me  nearly 
drove  me  wild.  Another  night  of  sleeplessness  had  put 
my  nerves  almost  beyond  control.  I  feared  Naomi's 
eyes,  and  her  dear  little  questioning  tongue.  If  she 
had  only  known  it,  I  loved  her  better  than  ever  then, 
as  a  part  of  my  lost  and  ended  summer,  but  still  I  was 
afraid  of  her.  Then  passed  a  few  moments  of  security, 


192  THE  SKA  MAKES  MOAN. 

while  she  kissed  and  caressed  Baby,  whom  she  had  not 
before  been  permitted  to  see  since  her  illness.  She  gave 
her  a  doll  she  had  dressed  for  her,  and  to  Maidy,  a  little 
picture  she  had  painted,  that  no  feelings  might  be  hurt. 
Then  she  came  up  beside  me,  and  laid  her  hand  on  my 
chair. 

"We've  missed  you  so,"  she  said,  stooping  down 
and  giving  me  a  kiss.  "  We've  had  dismal  times  since 
Baby  has  been  sick,  and  it's  worse  than  ever  now,  for 
Mr.  Macnally  went  awa}T  this  morning,  to  be  gone 
almost  a  week,  I  think.  It's  nice  to  have  holiday,  of 
course,  and  Ned's  got  all  sorts  of  plans  for  having  a 
good  time.  But  it's  not  so  nice  at  home  without  Mr. 
Macnally.  He's  always  saying  something  makes  you 
laugh.  Don't  you  think  he's  very  funny  ?  And  some 
how  uncle  doesn't  seem  in  a  good  humor  with  any  one 
this  morning ;  he's  scolded  all  the  men  since  breakfast, 
and  I  think  said  something  cross  to  Aunt  Penelope, 
though  I  don't  know  what.  Aunt  Penelope  often  says 
things  to  him,  and  he  never  seems  to  mind ;  but  it's 
something  new  for  him  to  speak  to  her  in  that  way — 
don't  you  think  it  is  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Naomi,  how  should  I  ? 
And  I  don't  think  your  aunt  would  like  you  to  talk 
about  these  things  to  me." 

"  You're  just  like  one  of  us,"  said  Naomi,  caress 
ingly.  "  I  feel  as  if  you  were  my  cousin,  or  something. 
Aren't  you  coming  down  to  dinner  to-day." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.     I  mean,  that  is,  I  can't  leave  Baby 
for  a  great  while  yet.     Poor  little  girl,  she'll  have  to  be 
looked  after  very  carefully  now,  you  know." 
•     "Can't  Maidy  come?     It's  awful  lonesome;   you 
don't  know." 


THE  SEA  MAKES  MOAN.  193 

We  compromised  on  Maidy,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

No  answer  came  from  the  house-agent.  I  would 
not  tell  Sophia  that  1  had  written  till  I  had  certain 
plans  to  offer.  I  packed  quietly  many  of  my  own 
things,  which  would  not  attract  her  attention.  I  spent 
diligent  hours  over  the  children's  clothes.  I  paid  lit 
tle  bills  about  the  neighborhood  ;  if  I  could  not  have 
been  busy,  1  should  have  been  very  much  more  un 
happy  than  I  was.  I  had  fortunately  been  out,  once 
or  twice,  when  the  colonel  and  his  wife  called,  and 
Baby's  illness  answered  for  excuse  for  my  not  going 
down  to  Happy-go-lucky. 

It  was  the  fourth  night  after  Naomi  had  brought 
her  little  budget  of  home  news.  I  longed  for  the  sea ; 
my  head  ached ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  to  stand  on  the 
sands  and, feel  the  wind  blow,  would  cool  and  cure 
me.  After  the  children  were  asleep,  therefore,  I  wrap 
ped  myself  up  and  went  out.  It  was  twilight ;  a  gray, 
faint  mist  hung  between  heaven  and  earth,  and  hid 
the  stars.  There  was  a  "  moist,  whistling  wind." 
When  I  reached  the  shore  I  stood  still,  feeling  it  blow 
upon  my  face  ;  but  it  did  not  seem  to  cool  the  fever  in 
my  blood.  The  waves  rolled  in  monotonously  at  my 
feet ;  but  the  sound  did  not  soothe  me.  There  was  no 
one  on  the  lonely  beach  ;  but  the  solitude  did  not  help 
me,  and,  restless  and  disappointed,  I  turned  back. 

I  could  see  the  road  a  good  way  before  me  ;  the 
white  dust  of  the  well-worn  track,  however,  was  all  I 
could  see,  at  any  distance.  The  gray  fences  and  the 
little  spindling  trees,  set  here  and  there  along  the  road 
side,  were  all  invisible  in  the  twilight.  It  was  a  good 
half  mile  from  the  beach  to  the  cottage. 

On  my  right,  after  I  had  walked  quarter  of  a  mile, 
0 


194:  THE    SEA    MAKES    MOAN. 

the  road  turned  off  to  Happy-go-lucky.  Its  windows 
were  shining  with  hospitable  lights.  Ah,  dear,  bright 
lights  of  Happy-go-lucky  !  What  feelings  they  stirred 
in  me !  I  could  not  hope  to  see  them  many  times  more. 
The  best  that  I  could  hope  was,  that,  by  and  bye,  I 
might  come  to  remember  them  with  love  and  gratitude, 
and  not  feel  bitter  and  ashamed.  I  leaned  against  the 
fence  for  a  moment,  looking  at  them,  and  then  took  up 
my  way  towards  home,  walking,  not  in  the  road,  but  in 
a  narrow,  faintly-beaten  path  close  by  the  fence. 

Some  sort  of  a  sound,  not  wave,  and  not  wind, 
reached  my  ear,  and  I  began  to  feel  afraid,  and  hurried 
forward.  I  don't  know  what  I  was  afraid  of  ;  it  was  a 
sudden  agitation,  the  result  of  my  ill-used  nerves,  no 
doubt.  Along  the  path,  coming  rapidly  near  me,  I 
saw  a  figure,  dimly.  I  stopped  in  a  sort  of  panic,  ir 
resolute  which  way  to  fly.  Before  I  had  time  to  move 
out  of  the  way,  the  man,  for  it  was  a  man,  confronted 
me.  The  dim  light,  my  dark  dress,  and  his  own  pre 
occupation,  made  it  as  unexpected  to  him.  We  both 
gave  a  start,  I  a  little  involuntary  cry  of  fright. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  not  knowing  me,  and 
stepped  aside.  I  recognized  the  voice  of  Mr.  Macnally. 
It  was  not  remarkable  that  he  didn't  know  me.  I  had 
on  a  long  gray  cloak,  with  the  hood  drawn  over  my 
head,  which,  I  am  sure,  he  had  never  seen  me  wear 
before. 

"  I  was  frightened,  for  I  didn't  know  you,"  I  said, 
hurriedly. 

"  You  ! "  he  cried,  with  a  start. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come  back,"  I  said,  not  knowing 
exactly  what  I  said  or  did.  "  I — I — thought  you 


THE    SEA    MAKES    MOAN.  195 

weren't  coming  back  for  a  good  many  more  days  yet — " 
and  I  put  out  my  hand. 

He  caught  it  and  held  it  for  a  moment.  We  stood  so 
near  together  I  could  feel  the  strong  pulsation  of  his 
heart.  He  could  not  speak,  nor  could  I.  I  withdrew 
my  hand,  remembering,  as  I  did  it,  that  it  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  ever  touched  it,  except  sometimes, 
perhaps,  in  getting  in  or  out  of  the  carriage,  and  very 
rarely  then.  He  had  taken  very  little  advantage  of  our 
constant  intimacy — this  adventurer.  He  dropped  my 
hand,  and  turning  walked  beside  me. 

"  Are  you  just  come  from  the  train  ?"  I  said,  at  last. 
He  assented.  "  Naomi  told  me  you  were  going  to  be 
away  a  week." 

"  I  meant  to  stay  longer ;  forever,  if  I  had  the  cour 
age,  but  I  hadn't."  He  spoke  in  a  quick,  low  voice,  but 
perfectly  distinct.  "  I  went  away  in  a  great  fury  with 
myself  and  you,  like  a  hot-blooded  Irishman,  as  I  have 
the  ill-luck  to  be.  Since  I've  been  away,  I  have  had  a 
thousand  thoughts.  Heavens  !  If  one  could  stop  think 
ing  !  The  other  night — were  you  only  sorry  for  me, 
and  only  angry  that  I  dared  to  want  to  speak  to  you  ? 
I  thought  I  saw  something  else  in  your  face,  and  I've 
come  back  to  ask  you  what  it  was.  I  hope  you  won't 
be  insincere.  It  isn't  like  you  to  be  insincere.  You 
won't  say  I  haven't  any  right  to  ask  ?  Remember,  I  am 
very  unhappy.  Tell  me  if  there  was  anything  that 
would  give  me  any  right  to  hope  ?" 

"  No,"  I  said  steadily,  after  a  moment.  "  I  cannot 
see  that  there  was  anything." 

"Remember  that  this  is  life  and  death,"  he  said, 
standing  still. 


196  THE    SEA    MAKES    MOAN. 

I  was  so  near  the  fence  that  I  put  my  hand  out  on 
the  rail,  and  supported  myself,  as  I  stood  trembling. 

"  It  is  life  and  death  to  me.  You  will  be  sincere. 
How  can  it  be  that — that  you  haven't  any  feeling  for 
me?  You  have  liked  me,  I  know  that  well  enough. 
You  have  been  glad  when  I  came,  sorry  when  I  went 
away.  You  have  found  it  dull  without  me.  AVe  read 
each  other's  thoughts,  we  know  each  other's  fancies,  we 
choose  the  same  path  to  walk  in.  Is  that  only  liking  ? 
Or  what  is  the  great  gulf  that  is  fixed  between  the  two  ? 
Is  liking  one  thing  and  loving  quite  another  ?  I  don't 
ask  you  to  love  me  with  the  vehemence  cf  my  love  for 
you.  It  isn't  in  your  nature,  it  wouldn't  be  tit.  But  I 
ask  you  to  look  well  into  your  heart,  and  to  be  sure  that 
you  arc  right  in  sending  me  away  to  such  a  dark  and 
miserable  loneliness.  Haven't  you  built  up  some  mor 
bid  and  unreal  obstacle  ?  Isn't  it  the  past  that  you  are 
trying  to  foist  upon  the  present?  Don't  think  me 
harsh.  I  believe  that  you  are  deceiving  yourself.  If 
I  thought  you  knew  your  heart  and  could  give  an  honest 
answer,  I  would  go  away  in  silence  and  take  my  fate 
like  a  man.  But  it  tortures  me,  it  unnerves  me,  it 
makes  ruin  of  all  my  resolutions,  to  feel  I  am  lighting 
with  shadows ;  that  it  is  a  dead  hand  draws  the  circle 
into  which  I  may  not  step." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  .1  said  steadily ;  "  you  are  mistaken. 
I  would  tell  you,  if  it  were  as  you  believe." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ?"  he  cried  passionately.  "  I  have 
been  humble  enough,  and  reverent  in  all  my  thoughts 
of  you,  and  patient  in  waiting  for  the  feelings  that  I 
trusted  to  inspire.  I  never  believed  that  I  could  speak 
in  this  way  to  you,  but  the  fire  has  burned  its  way  out, 
and  you  must  let  me  speak.  Give  me  tny  answer  and 


THE  SEA  MAKES  MOAN.  197 

I  will  go  away.  Tell  me,  as  before  Heaven,  what  is  it 
stands  between  us  ?" 

u  Why  is  it  necessary  for  me  to  say  more  than  I  have 
said  already?" 

"  Why  ?  Because,  if  you  don't,  I  shall  never  believe 
in  any  one  again.  I  shall  feel  that  you  have  been  in 
sincere  while  I  have  been  believing  you  divinely  true 
and  clear.  It  will  have  been  a  deception  that  will  do 
me  deadly  harm." 

"  Don't  talk  about  deception.  What  have  you  been 
making  me  believe  ?  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before 
what — what  you  have  told  me  now  ?" 

"  Because  I  waited  till  you  should  be  prepared  to 
hear  it.  But  my  secret  outgrew  my  strength  to  hold 
it.  Heaven  help  me  !  If  I  had  but  kept  it !" 

I  made  a  movement  to  go  on,  but  with  a  gesture  he 
prevented  me.  The  wind  was  strong  and  beat  my 
dress  and  cloak  against  the  fence  and  held  them,  and  I 
leaned  back  upon  this  rough  support.  My  limbs 
were  so  weak,  I  hardly  think  I  could  have  stood  with 
out  it. 

"  If  I  had  waited,"  he  said,  "  till  you  had  grown 
more  accustomed  to  the  thought  and  sight  of  me — if 
I  had  given  your  prejudices,  your  resolutions,  time 
to  weaken  and  decay —  1  will  wait  now.  It  shall  be 
as  if  I  had  not  spoken ;  things  shall  go  on  as  they 
were  before.  You  will  forget  this  folly,  won't  you  ? 
You  must  not  give  me  my  answer.  I  don't  want  it. 
You  shall  only  give  me  hope  by  being  silent.  See ! 
the  worst  is  past.  I  begin  to  live  again.  We  will  be 
friends ;  just  the  sort  of  friends  we  were  before.  It 
shall  not  be  your  fault  if  I  deceive  myself.  I  only  ask 
reprieve." 


198  THE  SEA  MAZES  MOAN. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  You  know  that  is  impossible. 
Don't  talk  of  what  can  never  be.  This  is  the  very 
end.  "We — you,  I  mean — must  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  Why  I — why  1  alone  ?"  he  said,  eagerly  catching 
at  my  altered  sentence.  "  Oh,  if  you  would  but  speak, 
if  you  would  but  tell  me  this  one  truth — is  it  I  alone 
who  suffer  ?  Don't  you  care  for  me  ?  How  can  it  be ; 
how  can  I  have  been  so  deceived  ?  I  have  lived  on  this 
one  strong  hope  always,  since  I  knew  my  feelings  to 
wards  you.  I  have  known  there  would  be  a  hundred 
obstacles,  but  never  this.  If  you  had  had  a  troop  of 
suitors  I  should  not  have  feared  them.  When  that 
padded,  pompous  creature  came  to  see  he  wanted  you, 
I  never  had  a  thought  of  jealousy.  I  never  counted 
his  money  and  his  good  position  worth  a  thought.  I 
knew  you  would  abhor  him.  1  felt  sure,  sure  of  your 
heart  when  you  came  to  know  it.  And  now  you  say 
you  know  it  —  " 

The  wind  was  blowing  stronger  every  minute. 

"  I  am  cold — let  us  go  home,"  I  said,  faintly. 

"  One  thing — one  word  more,  and  this  is  ended. 
If  I  could  be  so  duped  by  my  own  desires,  if  I  could 
be  so  at  fault  in  all  my  judgments — but  no,  everything 
reels !  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  you  different 
from  what  I  have  believed  you.  I  won't  ask  you  the 
question  that  I  meant  to.  I  would  rather  believe  you  true 
and  simple,  and  all  you  have  been  in  my  imagination, 
than  have  you  for  my  own,  and  know  that  I  had  been 
mistaken." 

"  If  you  mean,"  I  said,  incoherently,  "  to  ask 
whether  I  cure — whether  there  is  any  one  else — " 

"  Well '?"  he  said,  sharply,  drawing  his  breath 
quickly,  as  I  paused. 


THE  SEA  MAKES  MOAN.  199 

"There  isn't  anything  like  that,"  I  said.  "You 
might  have  known  there  wasn't." 

"  Then,  what  is  there  ?"  he  cried,  in  a  pleading 
voice.  "  What  is  there  that  makes  you  treat  me  so  ? 
"What  is  there  that  makes  you  forbid  me  to  wait,  and 
try,  and  hope  a  little  longer  ?  What  is  there  that  has 
changed  your  nature  so  ?  So  good  and  gentle  always, 
so  afraid  of  making  other  people  suffer.  How  can  you 
—kill  me — in  this  way  ?  Have  you  reflected ;  do  you 
know  what  you  are  doing  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  I  cried,  putting  my  hands  before 
my  face  "  It  doesn't  do  any  good  to  be  sorry." 

"  Why  doesn't  it  do  any  good  to  be  sorry  ?"  he 
murmured,  bending  towards  me.  "  Listen  to  your 
heart  this  time.  It  will  tell  you  true." 

I  lifted  my  head,  and  through  the  dusk  his  eyes 
shone  like  stars. 

"  There  is  no  use,"  I  said.  "  I  cannot  give  you  any 
other  answer.  If  you  waited  a  hundred  years,  it  would 
be  just  the  same." 

He  gave  me  a  long,  despairing  look.  "  Then  God 
in  His  mercy  help  me  !"  he  said,  putting  his  head  down 
on  his  folded  arms  upon  the  rail  beside  me.  How 
long  we  stood  there  I  don't  know ;  the  wind  swept  by 
with  a  moaning  sound,  now  lifting  a  little  the  gray, 
dusky  mist,  now  gathering  it  thicker  round  us.  I 
heard  steps  approaching,  and  the  rough  voices  of  men. 

"  Quick,"  I  said,  "  let  us  go,  some  people  are  coin 
ing  ;  I'm  afraid  of  them." 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear  me,  and  did  not  move  at 
all.  I  had  to  repeat  what  I  had  said,  und  then  to  touch 
his  arm,  before  he  lifted  his  head,  and  understood  me. 
By  this  time,  the  men,  a  party  of  sailors,  had  passed 


200  THE  SEA  MAKES  MOAN. 

along.  They  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road ; 
they  did  not  seem  to  notice  us.  Their  voices  grew 
faint  in  the  distance,  as  I  walked  slowly  on  along  the 
path  ;  Macnally  walking  silently  and  mechanically  be 
side  me.  We  were  not  very  far  from  home ;  in  a  few 
minutes  we  reached  the  gate.  He  only  went  with  me 
to  the  foot  of  the  balcony  steps.  The  kitchen  windows 
were  open,  and  a  strong  light  came  out  from  them 
across  the  path  ;  as  it  shone  for  an  instant  on  his  face, 
I  saw  that  it  was  white  and  very  haggard.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  said  anything  as  we  parted ;  I  to  go 
up  the  steps,  and  he  to  go  out  of  the  gate  again. 

When  I  got  into  the  little  parlor  I  found  it  cold 
and  dark ;  the  fire  had  gone  out ;  the  lamp  had  not 
been  lighted.  I  shivered,  and  lay  down  on  the  sofa.  I 
had  such  a  feeling  of  physical  fatigue  and  languor,  that 
I  could  only  think  of  the  bliss  of  dying,  and  going  to 
sleep  forever.  It  seemed  impossible  even  to  imagine 
suffering  anything  more.  After  a  few  moments, 
Sophia  came  in,  bringing  the  lamp.  I  knew  it  was 
overwhelming  curiosity  that  brought  her,  and  not  a  care 
for  my  comfort.  She  had,  no  doubt,  seen  Macnally's 
haggard  face,  as  he  passed  the  kitchen  window.  When 
she  saw  me  lying  white  and  faint  on  the  sofa,  she  came 
near  me,  with  a  cold,  hard  look. 

"  You  have  been  out  late,"  she  said,  "  and  you 
have  missed  a  visitor.  The  young  lad  from  the  Em- 
lyns  came  and  brought  you  a  letter  from  the  office. 
And  his  teacher  called  a  little  after,  on  his  way,  I  should 
think,  from  the  cars." 

"  Yes,  I  met  him." 

"  I  supposed  you  did.  I  know  he  came  home  with 
you  now." 


THE  SEA  MAKES  MOAN.  201 

I  didn't  answer,  only  lay  with  my  eyes  shut.  Her 
wrath  smouldered  awhile,  in  these  trivial  explanations, 
and  then  burst  forth  unstifled. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  say  something  to  you  for 
some  time — 

"  Don't  say  it  now,  Sophia,  I  don't  feel  well  enough 
to  talk." 

"  You've  felt  well  enough  to  talk,  for  the  last  half 
hour  or  over,  with  that  man  that's  just  gone  out  from 
here.  You  can  hear  me,  I  think,  a  little  while  at  least. 
I'll  do  the  talking,  and  you  can  do  the  listening.  I've 
lived  with  your  people  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl :  it 
doesn't  become  me  to  say  what  I've  done  for  you  and 
for  your  children.  If  your  husband  had  lived,  I  should 
never  have  thought  of  giving  up  the  children,  no  matter 
what  had  happened.  I  am  sure  it  will  cost  me  hard  to 
leave  them  that  I  have  brought  up.  They  are  like  my 
own  to  me.  But  if  they  were  my  own,  they  would  not 
keep  me,  if  I  once  made  up  my  mind  to  go.  You  may 
make  what  arrangements  you  think  best  for  yourself 
and  for  the  children.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  one 
thing,  either  that  man  stops  coming  to  this  house,  or  I 
go  out  of  it.  I  will  mind  your  children  and  do  my  duty 
by  the  house  as  I  have  always  done,  for  their  sakes,  and 
for  their  poor  dead  father's,  if  this  thing  is  put  a  stop 
to,  here  and  now.  You  can  choose  your  choice.  But 
I  cannot,  and  I  will  not,  see  those  children  that  I  have 
nursed  so  long  brought  to  disgrace  and  shame  by  a 
heartless  mother.  I  will  not  see  it,  I  say.  I  will  go 
away  and  hide  myself  and  try  to  forget  it  all.  It  is 
enough  that  this  thing  is  the  talk  of  all  the  village.  If 
they  were  little  boys  it  would  not  be  half  so  bad  ;  but 
9* 


202  THE    SEA    MAKES    MOAN. 

girls  that's  got  to  grow  up  shadowed  by  their  mother's 
reputation !" 

"Sophia!" 

"  Yes  ;  I  mean  exactly  what  I  say.  It  makes  my 
flesh  creep  when  I  think  of  their  poor  father,  only 
three  years  in  his  grave,  poor  fellow !  "When  I  think  of 
what  he  was,  and  what  he  would  have  been  to  them, 
and  then  think  of  what's  in  store  for  them.  Poor 
babies,  they  would  be  better  in  their  coffins,  where  they 
would  have  been,  if  you  had  had  the  care  of  them.  A 
woman  that  can  forget  a  man  like  that,  and  take  up 
with  such  a  one  as  this,  what  right  has  she  to  have  the 
care  of  children  ?  A  wild  Irishman,  turning  somer 
saults  in  the  village  streets,  shouting  his  songs  and  non 
sense  in  the  ears  of  decent,  quiet  people,  that's  a  man 
for  a  lady  to  take  up  with.  Folks  say  they  don't  know 
even  what  his  name  is ;  it's  handy  to  have  two  or  three, 
sometimes,  I've  heard.  He's  likely  to  have  need  of  all 
he's  got.  The  Emlyns  will  be  sick  of  him,  perhaps, 
sometime.  He  gets  a  little  money  now  from  teaching, 
but  where'll  the  next  bit  come  from,  I  should  like  to 
know.  I  suppose  he  thinks  he  knows,  arid  that  he's 
sure  of  a  shelter  and  a  crust  if  he  plays  a  good  sharp 
game,  down  here.  But  remember,  now's  your  time  to 
choose.  I'll  only  wait  another  day  to  have  this  matter 
settled,  and  know  exactly  what  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  to  do.  For  the  children's  sake  I'll  stay,  if  you 
break  with  him  entirely  ;  but  for  no  earthly  sake  will  I 
stay  if  he  comes  in  the  house  again."  I  did  not  attempt 
to  answer  her,  but  got  up,  and  almost  staggered  towards 
the  door. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  answer  me  ?"  she  said, 
fiercely.  "  Maybe  you'll  repent  it  if  you  don't." 


THE  SEA  MAKES  MOAN.  203 

I  shut  the  door  of  my  room,  and  left  her  talking 
still.  The  foul  and  muddy  flood  seemed  to  have 
washed  out  everything  pure  and  lovely  in  life.  I 
think,  I  simply  longed  that  moment  to  die,  and  be 
hidden  from  all  human  sight. 


CHAPTER  XYIL 


IN  THE   BROODING  DARKNESS. 


" Did  heaven  look  on, 

And  would  not  take  their  part  ?" 

Macbeth. 

"  O  God  I  could  I  so  close  my  miiid, 
And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  !" 

Eugene  Aram. 


HTVHE  next  morning  Naomi's  pretty  face  appeared  at 
-L  the  nursery  door  again,  but  this  time  disfigured 
with  scarcely  dried  tears.  She  beckoned  me  to  come 
out,  and  had  scarcely  a  word  for  her  little  playmates. 
I  put  down  Maidy,  who  was  in  my  lap,  and  followed 
her  into  the  parlor.  She  threw  herself  into  my  arms, 
and  began  to  cry. 

"  Mr.  Macnally  is  going  away  to-night,"  she  said, 
between  her  sobs,  "  never  to  come  back  again.  What 
can  make  him  go  ?  Something  is  the  matter.  Uncle 
is  all  upset  about  it,  and  Aunt  Penelope  sent  me  oat  of 
the  room,  and  won't  talk  to  me.  Ned,  even,  feels  sorry 
that  he's  going.  What  shall  we  do  without  him  ?  I 
like  him  better  than  anybody  I  can  think  of.  Oh,  why, 
why  does  he  have  to  go  away  ?" 

"  Why  does  he  say  he  has  to  go  ?"  I  asked,  sitting 
down  and  drawing  her  down  beside  me. 

"I  don't  know  what  he  says  to  uncle.  I  know 
uncle  thinks  he  ought  not  to  go,  and  leave  us,  before 
[204] 


IN    THE    BKOODING    DARKNESS.  205 

the  year  is  out.  Aunt  Penelope  answers  short,  and 
won't  give  me  any  satisfaction.  And  he — oh ! — lie  looks 
so  dreadfully.  It  makes  me  think  of  Shamus  O'Brien, 
'  For  his  face  is  as  pale  as  the  face  of  the  dead.'  He's 
the  handsomest,  and  the  best,  and  the  kindest !  Oh, 
what  will  it  be  at  home  without  him  ?  Ned  quarrel 
ling  all  the  time,  and  nobody  to  stop  him — and  no 
jokes,  and  no  fun — and  nobody  to  take  my  part !  I 
wish  we  could  go  to  the  city  right  away.  I  don't  want 
to  stay  here  any  longer.  Did  you  know  he  was  going 
away  to-night  ?" 

"  No,  Naomi,  I  didn't." 

"  I  wonder  why  he  didn't  tell  you.  Did  you  know 
he  meant  to  go  at  all  ?" 

"  I  knew  he  might  go.     I  didn't  know  when  he'd 

go." 

"  Has  he  heard  any  bad  news  from  home,  I  wonder  ? 
I  think  it's  so  hard,  Aunt  Penelope  won't  tell  rne.  They 
treat  me  like  a  child.  As  if  I  couldn't  be  trusted  to 
know  such  a  thing  as  that.  I  care  more  than  any  of 
them,  and  yet  they  act  as  if  it  wasn't  any  interest  to 
me.  He's  all  packed  up — he's  telegraphed  for  passage 
on  the  steamer  that  sails  to-morrow.  He's  given  Ned 
his  gun,  and  me  some  books.  He's  just  as  nice  as  ever. 
He  tries  to  talk  the  same  and  be  like  himself,  but  it 
isn't  natural,  and  his  face  is  so  pale,  and  his  eyes  so  hol 
low.  The  chambermaid  says  he  didn't  go  to  bed  at  all, 
but  just  walked  about  his  room  all  night.  At  break 
fast  it  was  horrid.  He  couldn't  eat  anything,  though 
he  took  lots  of  things  on  his  plate.  He  tried  to  make 
believe  he  did.  But  all  he  took  was  a  cup  of  coffee, 
strong  enough  to  kill  him.  Aunt  Penelope  made  it  for 
him  so,  I  guess,  because  she  saw  he  couldn't  touch  his 


206  IN    THE    BROODING    DAKKNESS. 

breakfast.  She  didn't  even  try  to  talk,  except  to  stop 
me  if  I  said  anything,  good  or  bad,  to  anybody.  Oh,  it 
was  a  horrid  breakfast — but  to-morrow  will  be  worse." 

And  poor  Naomi  hid  her  face  in  my  lap,  and  cried 
abandonedly. 

"  Don't  cry,  Naomi.  You  know  people  can't  always 
be  together.  When  you  get  older  you'll  be  used  to 
partings." 

"I  thought  you'd  feel  badly  too,  you've  always 
seeemed  to  like  him  so." 

"  I  do  feel  sorry,  ever  so  sorry.  But  you  know  I'm 
older  than  you,  and  I've  said  good-bye  to  so  many 
people." 

"  Then  I  don't  want  to  get  older,  if  I'm  going  to  feel 
that  way  about  things.  I  could  say  good-bye  to  a  hun 
dred  thousand  people,  but  it  wouldn't  make  me  used  to 
saying  good-bye  to  him.  If  he  was  going  away  happy, 
and  all  that,  it  would  be  bad  enough.  But  to  know 
he's  in  trouble — and  not  to  know  what  the  matter  is ! 
And  to  keep  thinking  all  the  time  it  may  get  worse, 
and  not  to  know  for  certain  anything  about  him !  I 
didn't  think  you'd  be  that  way.  I  thought  you'd  feel 
like  me  about  it,  he  was  such  friends  with  you.  Why, 
that  ridiculous  old  candlestick  you  gave  him  with  the 
ribbon  around  it  on  his  birthday,  he  packed  it  up  the 
very  first  thing,  for  I  went  up  to  his  room  to  take  him 
some  things  that  the  laundress  had  forgotten,  and  he 
was  packing  it  into  a  box  all  with  tissue  paper  around 
it.  And  Maidy's  little  Cinderella  was  in  the  tray  of  his 
trunk.  Poor  Maidy !  She  won't  have  him  to  carry  her 
on  his  shoulder  any  more.  But  she'll  soon  get  over  it, 
I  suppose,  she  is  so  little." 

I  stroked  Naomi's  yellow-brown  hair,  and  would 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  207 

have  smiled,  if  I  had  had  the  heart.  I  petted  and  com 
forted  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and  she  soon  went  home, 
to  hang  around  her  tutor's  closed  door,  to  be  snubbed 
by  her  aunt,  snarled  at  by  ISTed,  ignored  by  her  uncle, 
and  to  have  her  honest  grief  most  entirely  disregarded. 

The  day  passed  heavily  enough  with  me.  After 
Naomi's  visit,  nobody  at  all  came  near  me.  I  felt 
very  sure  he  would  not  go  away  without  seeing  me. 
It  seemed  to  me  probable  he  would  come  the  last  thing 
before  he  went  away. 

The  train  went  at  nine  fifteen.  At  eight  o'clock  he 
had  not  come.  It  was  a  warm,  close  night,  not  a  breath 
of  wind  stirring.  All  the  parlor  windows  were  open, 
and  the  doors.  It  was  not  hot — it  never  was  hot  at 
South  Berwick — but  there  was  to-night  a  quality  in  the 
air  that  made  it  abominable  :  it  weighed  you  down  like 
lead ;  it  oppressed  you  like  a  te-ouble :  you  opened  a  win 
dow  and  no  freshness  entered  ;  you  fanned  yourself,  and 
were  not  the  better.  I  sat  down  by  the  parlor  lamp 
awhile,  then  walked  restlessly  about  the  room,  and  then 
went  from  one  room  to  another,  trying  to  occupy  my 
self,  but  listening  intently  all  the  time.  All  the  doors 
and  windows  were  open  ;  it  seemed  as  if  everything 
were  laid  under  a  spell,  not  to  be  banging  and  flutter 
ing  in  the  usual  gale. 

Sophia  had  taken  her  work,  and  was  sitting  in  the 
dining-room  by  a  small  shaded  lamp.  She  often  sat 
there  in  the  evening,  to  be  near  the  children.  The 
dining-room,  as  I  have  said,  was  next  the  nursery,  and 
communicated  with  it  by  a  door.  This  door  was  shut, 
however,  to  keep  out  the  noise  and  light.  Sophia  trusted 
to  her  sharp  ears  to  hear  them  through  the  hall  which 
led  into  the  sort  of  unfinished  garret  into  which  the 


208  IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS. 

nursery  opened.  The  parlor  and  my  sleeping-room 
were  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall,  all  opening,  in  the 
same  way,  on  this  uncoiled,  ill-lighted  space.  Stairs 
to  the  attic  led  up  from  it,  through  a  door ;  stairs  from 
the  kitchen  led  up  to  it  from  below.  I  should  think  it 
was  about  sixteen  feet  square.  You  could  touch  the 
beams  by  slightly  lifting  your  hand ;  they  were  cob 
webby  and  dusty,  notwithstanding  Sophia ;  across  the 
floor  she  had  laid  strips  of  rag  carpet  from  the  stairs  to 
the  different  doors,  that  the  children  might  not  be  roused 
by  steps  on  the  bare  floor. 

I  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  open  window  of  my 
room,  looking  out  into  the  starless  night ;  then  crossed 
this  chamber,  and  went  softly  into  the  nursery.  A 
shaded  lamp  was  burning  in  one  corner ;  the  door  was 
open,  and  the  window.  The  room  was  all  in  the  scru 
pulous  order  in  which  Sophia  always  left  it  when  her 
day's  work  was  done,  and  her  nurslings  were  asleep. 
Here  lay  Maidy's  little  shoes,  beside  the  chair  on  which 
lay  her  folded  clothes ;  there  Baby's ;  there  the  bath-tub, 
with  its  sponges  and  towels  on  the  rack  beside  it,  the 
soap  and  powder  box  and  brushes  on  their  little  table, 
close  at  hand.  Before  the  unlighted  stove  hung  the  bath 
ing  blankets,  and  two  little  wrappers.  There  was  not  a 
thing  out  of  place  ;  all  told  the  story  of  monotonous 
nursery  life.  That  was  the  life  that  lay  before  me; 
that  was  what  was  to  satisfy  my  soul  henceforth.  I 
took  the  lamp  in  my  hand,  and  went  and  stood  below 
the  two  little  cribs,  where  the  light  fell  upon  the  two 
children  in  their  peaceful  sleep.  I  gazed  long  and 
steadfastly.  Yes,  it  ought  to  satisfy  me ;  it  should 
satisfy  me.  I  thought  of  the  agony  that  wrung  me 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  209 

when  only  a  few  nights  before  I  had  seen  Baby  lying 
in  that  same  crib,  so  ill.  Was  I  the  same  woman? 

I  put  back  the  lamp,  and  went  and  stood  between 
the  two  cribs,  and  bent  first  over  one  and  then  over  the 
other.  Yes,  I  loved  them  best ;  it  was  enough ;  I  was 
satisfied.  Baby  lay  with  one  hand  under  her  cheek,  the 
other  grasping  a  little  battered  fleecy  lamb,  with  a  faded 
ribbon  on  its  neck,  and  a  tiny  tinkling  bell,  with  which 
she  always  went  to  sleep.  Her  soft  chesnut  curls  were 
moist  on  her  forehead,  as  was  the  little  band  of  em 
broidery  on  the  nightgown  round  her  throat.  With  a 
tender  care,  I  turned  back  one  of  the  light  coverings 
of  her  crib,  and  stooped  to  kiss  her  pretty,  pretty,  lit 
tle  hand.  Maidy  gave  a  sigh  and  turned  over  on  her 
pillow ;  "  Dear  little  Maidy,"  I  thought,  gazing  down 
at  her  sweet  face,  as  she  lay  with  her  arms  crossed  on 
her  breast,  and  her  eyelashes  on  her  cheek  ;  "  you  and 
I  will  be  companions,  and  live  together  always.  Baby 
will  go  away  and  marry.  Ton  and  I  must  love  each 
other  very  much  ;  there  is  a  long  road  before  us."  I 
caressed  her  fair  curls,  and  spread  them  out  upon  the 
pillow,  and  lifted  one  to  my  lips  and  kissed  it.  I 
thought  of  the  time  when  she  was  a  tiny  infant,  and 
when  her  proud  young  father  first  held  her  in  his 
arms.  "  Dear  Arnold,"  I  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  brother 
for  all  eternity;  I  will  be  faithful  to  your  children." 
Then  I  knelt  down,  with  bowed  head,  between  my  two 
babies,  and  commended  them  to  God's  gracious  care 
and  keeping ;  and  for  myself  I  asked  fortitude  and 
patience. 

With  a  heavy  heart  I  got  up  and  walked  to  the 
open  window,  through  which  the  stagnant  air  crept  in. 
For  a  moment  I  had  forgotten  the  outside  world,  while 


210  IN    THE    BKOODING    DARKNESS. 

I  had  been  on  my  knees  beside  the  children ;  now  I 
heard  a  wagon  pass,  and  it  recalled  me  to  the  present, 
and  I  went  restlessly  out  of  the  room.  It  could  not  be 
that  he  would  go  without  seeing  me  again.  I  walked 
up  and  down  the  parlor,  and  up  and  down  the  balcony, 
and  then  sat  down  by  the  lamp  with  a  sort  of  resolution 
that  I  would  not  get  up  again.  It  was  now  nearly  half 
past  eight ;  I  might  as  well  face  it,  the.  wheels  I  had 
heard  were  his.  He  was  going  without  seeing  me — 
perhaps  it  was  best.  What  good  could  come  of  saying 
good-bye ;  what  solace  could  there  be  in  half  an  hour 
out  of  a  life-time  ?  Separation  might  as  well  begin 
now,  as  at  nine  o'clock.  I  must  begin  to  school  myself  ; 
I  would  not  get  up,  I  would  not  listen.  I  would  read, 
and  turn  my  thoughts  away.  I  heard  the  gate-latch 
lifted,  and  a  step  outside.  I  did  not  raise  my  eyes  till 
some  one  stood  in  the  door.  It  was  Macnally.  I  got 
up,  and  said : 

"  Naomi  told  me  you  were  going  to-night.  I  began 
to  think  you  weren't  coming  to  say  good-bye  to  me." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "  Ned  has  gone  on  to  the  train 
with  my  luggage,  and  will  get  the  checks.  I  have — 
half  an  hour." 

And  he  took  out  his  watch. 

"  You  can't  walk  it  in  fifteen  minutes,"  I  said. 

"  Easily,  in  ten,"  he  returned,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  But  don't  be  uneasy.  I  shan't  get  left,  or,  if  I  do,  I 
can  catch  my  steamer  by  the  early  train  to-morrow. 
It's  a  well-bred  steamer,  and  doesn't  sail  till  three 
o'clock." 

"  Then,  if  you  have  so  much  time  you  might  sit 
down,  I  think.  Here  is  my  very  nicest  chair.  You 
look  as  if  you  were  dreadfully  tired." 


IN    THE    BROODING    DAEKNESS.  211 

"  Do  I  ?"  he  said,  passing  his  hand  over  his  forehead 
as  he  sat  down.  "  I  don't  exactly  know  what  I  am  to 
night," 

"  It  is  so  close,"  I  said,  moving  restlessly  my  fan. 
"  "We  haven't  had  such  a  night  this  Summer." 

"  No,  I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  returned,  with  an  almost 
imperceptible  gasp. 

"  It  suffocates  one,"  I  went  on.  "  And  in  Septem 
ber,  too,  when  one  doesn't  look  for  suffocation." 

Rex  came  pattering  in  at  this  moment,  having  heard 
a  friend's  voice.  He  wagged  his  tail  gently  and  walked 
across  the  room  and  put  his  paws  on  Mr.  Macnally's 
lap. 

"Poor  Rex,  poor  fellow,"  said  he,  stooping  down 
and  patting  him.  But  Rex  could  not  be  satisfied  with 
this.  He  sprang  up  on  his  knees,  and  put  his  nose  in 
his  face. 

"  That's  an  unusual  attention,  old  fellow,"  he  said, 
in  rather  a  low  voice,  as  he  held  him  off.  "  You  know 
I'm  going  away,  I  see." 

"  Don't  let  him  trouble  you,"  I  said,  getting  up  and 
going  to  take  him  from  him.  "  You're  so  tired.  You 
must  not  be  bothered." 

"  I  shall  have  time  enough  to  rest  on  the  steamer," 
he  answered,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  a  sickly  white 
ness  passing  over  his  face  as  for  an  instant  he  closed  his 
eyes. 

"  You  are  ill,"  I  said,  standing  before  him  with  the 
dog  under  my  arm.  "  What  shall  I  get  you?  I  wish 
you  didn't  have  to  go." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  didn't !"  he  cried,  with  a  bitter 
little  laugh,  rousing  himself  and  lifting  his  head.  u  I 
am  not  ill ;  you  must  not  worry.  I  am,  as  you  say,  aw- 


212  IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS. 

fully  tired ;  just  fagged  out.  It  will  pass.  You  mustn't' 
worry."  I  ran  to  the  dining-room  and  got  a  glass  of 
wine,  braving  Sophia,  who  sat  there  sewing.  When  I 
came  back  he  was  standing  up. 

"  You  must  drink  it,"  I  said,  in  an  agitated  way, 
standing  before  him.  "  Won't  you  ?  It  may  do  you 
good." 

He  took  the  glass  from  my  hand,  and  drank  off  the 
wine. 

"  Now  sit  down  and  rest,"  I  said,  wheeling  the  chair 
close  tip  to  the  table  and  shading  the  light  where  he  sat 
down.  "  You  have  twenty-five  minutes.  You  can  rest 
a  good  deal.  Rex,  lie  down,  lie  down,  sir." 

Rex  lay  down  at  his  feet,  with  his  head  on  the  floor, 
his  black  eyes  fixed  with  a  keen  attention  on  his  face. 
He  wagged  his  tail  occasionally,  but  made  no  other 
movement.  There  was  a  silence  of  a  moment  or  so. 

"  You  are  better  ?"  I  asked,  bringing  a  light  chair 
and  sitting  down  near  him  beside  the  table. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "  I  am  better.  I  asked  you 
not  to  worry  about  that." 

"  The  voyage  may  do  you  good,  and  the  change.  I 
think  it  often  is  the  best  thing.  And  you'll  let  us  know 
all  about  it ;  you'll  write — to — some  of  us." 

"  I  just  promised  Naomi." 

"  Be  sure  you  write  soon,  just  as  soon  as  ever  you 
are  landed.  We  shall  want  to  know." 

Then  I  opened  my  portfolio,  lying  on  the  table,  and 
said,  "  Here's  a  photograph  I  got  out  for  you  this  morn 
ing.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  like  to  have  it.  It  was 
taken  in  the  Spring.  It's  better  of  me  than  of  the 
children.  Baby  wouldn't  sit  still,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  but  Maidy's  is  pretty  good.  And  on  the  out- 


IN    THE    BROODING    DAKKNESS.  213 

side  I  have  written  an  address  which  will  always  reach 
me — some  time  when  I  mightn't  be  near  the  Emlyns — 
at  any  rate,  I  put  it  down." 

He  took  the  little  picture  and  leaned  over  it  to  look 
at  it  by  the  light.  An  expression  of  great  pain  passed 
over  his  face.  I  faltered,  "  I  thought  you'd  like  to 
have  it,  though  it  isn't  very  good." 

"  I  shall  like  to  have  it  one  of  these  days,  no  doubt ; 
but  I  don't  like  to  have  it  now.  It  is  so  little  for  a 
man  to  have  when  he  wants — everything." 

He  leaned  down  on  the  table  with  a  sort  of  groan, 
and  put  his  hands  before  his  face. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  gave  it  to  you,"  I  said,  almost  crying. 
"  I  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  do  the  right  thing.  I 
wish  you  wouldn't — feel  so — 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  lifting  his  head,  and  putting 
the  picture  in  its  envelope  in  the  pocket  of  his  vest 
without  looking  at  it  again.  "  Forgive  me ;  I  know 
this  is  unmanly,  and  I  don't  blame  you  for  reproaching 
me.  Yes — as  you  say — the  voyage  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  is  apt  to  do  one  good.  And  you — when  shall  you 
go  away  from  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  soon,  I  hope  ;  as  soon  as  ever  we  can  go. 
Next  week  perhaps.  I  have  begun  to  pack." 

"  And  you  will  be — in  the  city  after  this  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  I  don't  know.  It  all  depends  upon 
the  children.  If  they  keep  well,  we  might  as  well  stay 
there  as  anywhere ;  but  if  they're  not  as  strong,  I've 
sometimes  thought  it  would  be  better  for  us  to  have 
some  little  place  in  the  country  where  we  might  live  all 
the  year." 

Involuntarily  I  looked  up  at  the  clock,  and  his  eyes 
followed  mine.  "  I  have  ten  minutes  more,"  he  said, 


214:  IN    THE    BROODING    DAEKNESS. 

with  a  bitter  smile  for  a  moment  on  his  lips.  "  Don't 
begrudge  them  to  me.  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  live 
forty-five  years  more,  at  least ;  we're  a  long-lived  family. 
Nothing  ever  kills  us ;  there  are  no  bullets  for  us,  no 
rotten  sleepers,  no  misplaced  switches,  no  defective  boil 
ers.  I  don't  believe  we  should  be  hung  if  we  com 
mitted  murder  !  Don't  begrudge  me  my  ten  minutes ; 
turn  your  back  upon  the  clock,  and  trust  me  to  get 
myselif  away  in  time." 

The  tears  swam  in  my  eyes,  and  I  looked  down. 

"  Ah,  don't !"  he  exclaimed,  with  frantic  irritation 
in  his  voice.  "  You  don't  know  what  you're  doing. 
A  man  can't  stand  everything  at  once." 

Then  he  got  rip  and  walked  once  or  twice  across 
the  room.  "  You  are  sorry  for  me  ?"  he  said,  stopping 
before  me,  his  voice  full  of  the  deepest  tenderness. 
"  I  am  ashamed  that  I  have  made  you  cry.  I  will  go 
away  and  put  an  end  to  this ;  good-bye." 

"  Don't,  go  till  it  is  time,"  I  faltered.  "  You  don't 
seem  to  think  I  care,  but  you  might  know  I  do." 

"  How  should  I  know  it  when  you've  told  me  that 
you  don't !" 

"  I  haven't  told  you  that.  We  can't  go  all  over  it 
again,  but  you  ought  to  understand.  It  makes  me  very 
unhappy." 

"  Yes,  because  you  are  sorry  for  me.  Isn't  that  all 
that  makes  you  so  unhappy  V 

"  I  shall  be  very  lonely,  you  must  see  that.  I 
haven't  so  very  much  pleasure  in  my  life.  It  makes 
me  very  uneasy  and  anxious  to  know  you  feel  so  bitter 
and  unhappy.  Won't  you  promise  me  to  get  over  it, 
and  to  be  like  yourself  again?  I  wish  this  summer 
could  be  blotted  out." 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  215 

"  All,  well,  it  can't  be,  that  is  all.     Good-bye." 

1  got  up  now ;  the  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  at 
five  minutes  of  nine. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  again,  turning  towards  me, 
and  holding  out  his  hand. 

I  put  mine  in  his,  and  he  held  it,  and  looked  into 
my  eyes  with  an  intent  and  searching  look. 

"  Why  must  I  go  ?"  he  said.     "  What  is  the  need  ?" 

"  There  is  a  need,"  I  said.  "  You  must  go,  but  oh, 
don't  go  without  being  friends  with  me.  Indeed,  it 
isn't  my  fault." 

"  Whose  fault  is  it  2" 

"  Whose  ?     How  can  I  tell  ?     Fate's—" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  It  is  your  children 
stand  between  us.  You  cannot  say  it  is  not.  You 
aren't  willing  to  trust  them  to  me,  whatever  you  might 
be  willing  for  yourself.  I  can't  blame  you.  I  have  led 
an  idle  life ;  but  you  needn't  have  made  it  final — you 
might  have  let  me  try." 

"  It  must  be  final.  Do  not  let  us  talk  about  it  any 
more.  Only  be  friends  with  me,  and  believe  I  am  un 
happy  too." 

He  did  not  let  go  my  hand,  nor  take  his  eyes  from 
my  face,  but  grew  whiter  and  whiter. 

"Good-bye,"  I  said,  pale  and  trembling.  "You 
ought  to  go — you  will  be  left." 

After  a  moment  more  he  released  my  hand ;  his 
lips  moved — I  don't  know  what  he  said.  We  were 
standing  near  the  parlor  door ;  Rex  jumped  up,  and  be 
gan  to  lick  his  hand.  He  took  a  step  forward  towards 
the  hall,  then  turned  back. 

"  The  children  are  asleep  ?  mayn't  I  look  at  them 
before  I  go  V  he  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice. 


216  IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS. 

He  knew  the  way  to  their  room.  I  stood  in  the 
parlor  door  and  \vatched  him  go  along  the  narrow  hall, 
into  the  open  garret  that  led  to  the  nursery.  He  was 
gone  three  minutes,  perhaps ;  when  he  came  back,  he 
looked  deadly  white.  He  did  not  offer  to  take  my 
hand  again  or  speak  to  me  as  he  passed  me,  but  the 
look  in  his  eyes  was  one  that  I  fain  would  have  for 
gotten. 

He  was  gone :  the  gate  latch  fell  for  the  last  time 
after  him,  and  I  began  to  feel  the  full  weight  of  the 
thing  that  I  had  done.  I  went  out  on  the  balcony,  and 
walked  restlessly  up  and  down,  and  tried  to  think  over 
all  the  good  and  sound  reasons  that  had  seemed  suffi 
cient  for  me,  half  an  hour  ago.  But  they  didn't  seem  to 
me  good  and  sound  any  longer ;  nature  cried  out  against 
them.  What  had  I  done  ?  I  had  sent  him  away  from 
me  in  the  state  of  mind  in  which  men  do  rash  and  awful 
deeds.  There  might  be  a  bullet  for  him,  though  he  had 
said  one  never  had  been  found.  I  thought  of  his  hot 
Irish  blood  ;  I  was  afraid  for  him.  What  right  had  I  to 
spoil  his  life  in  this  way  ?  Didn't  his  love  for  me  make 
some  duty  for  me  ?  AVere  the  children  and  the  past  all 
that  had  any  claim  upon  me?  Hadn't  I  made  some 
grave  mistake  ? 

I  saw  Sophia  go  stealthily  in  from  the  balcony  to 
the  dining-room.  She  had  been  listening  outside  at  the 
open  parlor  window,  to  our  parting  words.  Ah,  well, 
she  might  listen  now.  She  would  never  hear  anything 
more.  It  was  all  over — it  was  all  over !  I  said  it  again 
and  again  to  myself,  leaning  my  head  against  the  little 
pillar  that  supported  the  balcony  roof,  where  the 
trumpet  creeper  twined.  The  night  was  utterly  star 
less,  and  yet  there  was  no  mist.  There  was  such  a 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  217 

stillness.  The  surf  on  the  beach  was  low  and  faint, 
like  (he  pulse  of  a  dying  man.  I  heard  no  sound  at 
all  but  that,  and  for  that  I  had  to  listen  keenly.  We 
were  so  far  from  the  village,  no  bustle  reached  us,  if 
there  were  any  there.  I  counted  the  minutes,  and 
wondered  if  he  would  reach  the  train.  Oh,  if  he 
might  not !  If  he  had  to  come  back,  I  should  tell  him 
that  he  need  not  go.  Why  had  I  let  him  go  ?  I  prayed 
that  I  might  have  another  chance  to  see  him  ;  it  was 
not  all  over,  it  should  not  be  all  over  ;  I  would  write, 
and  tell  him  to  come  back.  Ah,  where  should  I  write  ? 
I  remembered  he  had  left  me  no  address ;  it  was  even 
possible,  in  the  haste  of  his  going,  and  the  displeasure 
at  his  departure,  he  had  left  none  with  the  Emlyns ;  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  his  brief  and  bright  presence  had 
been  like  a  star  in  those  black  heavens,  suddenly  shoot 
ing  down  and  being  lost  in  darkness. 

The  minutes  passed;  the  village  clock  had  long 
sounded  out  nine,  and  still  no  coming  of  the  train.  It 
was  late  ;  he  would  make  it ;  there  was  no  longer  any 
hope  that  he  might  miss  it.  It  was  nearly  twenty-five 
minutes  after  nine  when  the  whistle  sounded,  sharp  and 
piercing,  through  the  still  air.  I  held  my  breath  during 
the  few  moments,  till  it  sounded  again ;  he  had  said 
good-bye  to  Ned,  he  had  gone  into  the  close  and  dimly- 
lighted  car,  and  had  thrown  himself  into  a  seat.  Yes,  it 
was  all  over,  for  the  train  was  moving,  the  whistle 
sounded  clear  and  distinct  across  the  plain.  I  could  see 
the  lights  of  the  train  as  it  moved  along  the  level  country, 
for  half  a  mile  distinctly  in  my  sight.  Everything  was 
dark  but  that  moving  chain  of  lights,  creeping  in  silence 
from  me,  further  and  further  every  instant.  A  sort  of 
oppression  seemed  to  overpower  me,  and  when  the  last 
10 


218  IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS. 

light  wavered  and  was  swallowed  up  in  darkness,  I  sank 
upon  a  seat,  and,  burying  my  face  in  my  hands,  said 
some  passionate,  incoherent  words  aloud. 

Sophia's  figure  appeared  in  the  door-way ;  she  ap 
proached  me.  "  Did  you  call  ?  Do  you  want  any 
thing  ?"  she  said. 

I  lifted  my  head  and  leaned  it  back  upon  the  vine 
by  which  I  sat.  "No,  I  did  not  call  you.  I  don't 
want  anything." 

She  looked  at  me  keenly  and  went  back  to  .her  sew 
ing.  She  might  look  her  fill  now.  I  did  not  care  who 
knew.  Ah,  what  had  I  done  ?  Had  I  not  been  influ 
enced  by  others  ?  Why  had  I  not  listened  to  my  heart  ? 
I  had  thought  it  was  all  steadfastness  and  duty,  but  how 
much  of  it  had  been  concession  to  the  world's  opinion ; 
fear  of  this  terrible  strong  woman  who  domineered  me 
so.  They  had  called  him  an  adventurer;  how  that 
word  had  stuck  in  my  mind !  I  could  not  get  rid  of 
it ;  it  was  coming  up  continually.  If  there  had  not 
be.en  any  such  word,  I  wondered  if  1  should  have  sent 
him  off.  How  weak  I  was,  how  paltry  and  poor  I 
looked  to  myself ;  how  strong  and  grand  his  love  looked 
when  I  compared  it.  A  woman  who  did  not  even 
know  her  own  mind,  who  could  deceive  herself  so, 
who  could  think  herself  so  firm,  when  her  purpose 
was  like  shifting  sand !  What  was  the  past  to  me  ?  I 
hated  it,  it  wearied  me  to  think  of  it.  Arnold — a  dear 
brother,  nothing  more — what  feeling  had  I  ever  had  for 
him  that  compared  to  this?  How  dull,  how  shadowy, 
how  pale  the  past  all  looked.  How  childish  and  imma 
ture  the  hopes  and  pleasures  of  that  time.  Why  had  I 
not  been  a  woman,  and  resolute,  and  known  that  a  love 
like  this  had  its  demands,  as  well  as  memories  like 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  219 

those  ?  It  had  been  puerile — it  had  been  like  a  girl  in 
a  story-book.  I  had  not  risen  to  the  occasion  that  had 
come  upon  me.  I  had  courted  self-sacrifice,  and  had 
forgotten  that  I  was  not  sacrificing  myself  alone.  Yes 
terday  it  had  seemed  to  me  the  height  of  heroism  to  say 
I  would  live  for  my  children  and  put  aside  all  .that 
could  make  life  bright  to  me ;  to-night  it  seemed  con 
temptible.  Why  could  I  not  have  lived  for  them,  and 
saved  him,  too,  from  misery  ? 

The  cold  counsels  of  yesterday  had  said  it  would  be 
cruelty  to  them  to  link  their  future  with  one  of  whom 
I  knew  so  little  ;  to  risk  their  certain  daily  bread  in  the 
uncertain  fortunes  of  a  nameless  adventurer.  Through 
much  struggle  and  many  straits  I  had  brought  them  on 
so  far  in  their  life's  journey ;  in  the  Providence  of  God 
I  had  now  a  reasonable  certainty  of  competence  and 
comfort  for  them.  I  had  no  right  to  throw  this  away, 
and  put  in  jeopardy  their  future  :  I  was  bound  to  give 
them,  being  fatherless  and  helpless,  my  best  care,  my 
whole  love.  This  new  protector,  with  his  shrouded  past, 
his  uncertain  future,  his  versatile  talents,  his  hot  blood — 
what  would  he  make  of  their  lives  ?  What  part  even 
of  myself  could  I  give  to  them,  having  first  given  my 
self  to  him  ? 

All  this  to-night  seemed  ungenerous  and  unworthy. 
It  all  seemed  to  me  tainted  with  a  suspicion  of  his 
honor.  If  I  had  believed  in  him  thoroughly,  how  I 
could  have  listened  to  such  reasoning.  And  I  did 
believe  in  him  ;  what  spell  had  been  upon  me  to  decide 
against  him  ?  I  could  always  have  trusted  him  with  my 
own  fate,  why  not  with  my  children's  ?  Why  had  this 
conviction  come  so  late  ?  What  was  duty,  what  was 
right  ?  How  could  I  know  what  God  meant  me  to  do. 


220  »T    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS. 

ever,  if  upheavals  of  purpose  such  as  this  came  over 
me  ?  Ah,  poor  children,  you  have  a  sorry  guardian, 
strong  in  naught  but  her  repentances  ! 

I  sat  still,  leaning  my  forehead  against  the  vine 
stein  :  the  tears,  usually  so  ready,  did  not  fall  to-night : 
a  weight  of  lead  was  on  my  heart,  a  fire  of  suffering  in 
my  brain.  Each  moment  that  passed  took  him  further 
and  further  from  me  ;  the  distance  between  us  grew 
with  every  second.  I  stretched  out  my  arms  into  the 
thick,  dark  night ;  I  prayed  £rod  to  let  him  come  back 
to  me  ;  to  save  me  from  this  devouring  anguish.  How 
could  I  bear  my  life  ;  how  would  this  wound  ever  heal  ? 
All  was  so  still,  so  heavy,  so  fixed,  so  fated.  The  air 
itself  stood  still ;  it  seemed  to  me  the  ocean,  too,  was 
dead,  for  I  heard  no  longer  its  faint  pulse  upon  the 
shore. 

Once  only  I  heard  a  little  sound  that  startled  me. 
As  I  leaned  my  hot  forehead  against  the  vine,  below 
me,  there  was  a  faint  rustling  of  the  lilac  bush  that 
grew  beside  the  path,  and  an  instant  after,  the  gate 
latch  was  softly  lifted,  and  as  softly  dropped  into  its 
place.  I  raised  my  head  and  looked  down,  but  it  was 
like  looking  into  the  eternal  abyss ;  there  was  nothing 
but  black  darkness  a  foot  beyond  the  house.  I  roused 
myself  enough  to  walk  along  the  balcony  and  glance 
into  the  dining-room.  It  was  not  Sophia ;  she  sat 
bending  over  her  sewing,  slightly  rocking,  her  lips 
tight  pressed  together.  She  had  not  heard  the  sound  ; 
it  must  have  been  light,  indeed,  to  have  escaped  her 
ear.  It  did  not  trouble  me  long ;  it  must  have  been 
some  trespasser  passing  across  the  yard,  coming  from 
the  lane.  I  went  back  to  the  chair  in  which  I  had  been 
sitting ;  physically,  I  was  so  weary  and  overstrained ; 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  221 

mentally,  I  was  so  far  from  any  ability  to  rest  or  cairn 
myself.  The  conflict  of  feeling  did  not  abate  as  the 
night  in  her  swift  course  moved  on. 

Ten  o'clock  struck ;  eleven ;  twelve.  I  felt  as  if 
years  of  trial  had  passed  over  me,  and  yet  the  hours 
were  not  slow.  A  bitter  feeling  seemed  to  grow  upon 
me.  At  last  I  forced  myself  to  rise  and  go  into  the 
house.  I  hated  the  thought  of  the  house,  and  the  four 
walls  pressing  in  upon  me.  The  black,  midnight  sky 
had  seemed  less  gloomy.  But  I  must  take  up  the 
burden  of  daily  life  and  nightly  care  again.  My  lip 
curled  with  a  bitter  contempt  for  my  puerile  round  of 
duties,  having  left  the  great  one  so  undone.  I  must 
put  out  the  parlor  lamp,  lock  the  front  door,  see  that  the 
windows  on  the  balcony  were  fastened.  But  as  I 
passed  the  dining-room,  I  saw  that  Sophia  still  was 
there,  by  the  lamp,  stitching  relentlessly,  and  not  look 
ing  up.  I  knew  she  often  sewed  half  the  night ;  it  was 
not  unusual ;  fall  clothes  for  the  children  were  now  in 
hand,  and  she  bent  her  whole  mind  upon  the  work  of 
each  season  as  it  came.  Still,  I  knew  she  would  not 
leave  me  up  ;  suspicion,  curiosity,  both  would  oblige 
her  to  see  me  fastened  in  my  room. 

When  I  came  into  the  parlor,  I  sank  down  into  the 
large  chair  by  the  table  that  I  had  wheeled  up  for  Mac- 
nally  to  sit  down  in.  Three  hours  ago !  It  seemed  a 
lifetime,  and  yet  but  a  moment.  The  irrevocable  three 
hours ;  what  a  gulf  of  space  that  had  put  between  us, 
widening  every  moment ;  he  speeding  on  into  the  night, 
in  that  chain  of  moving  lights ;  I  purpose-weak,  bound, 
left  behind  helpless  in  the  dark  stagnation  of  the  life  that 
1  had  chosen.  The  hands  of  the  clock  moved  on  an 
other  half  hour.  The  lamp  took  the  law  into  its  own 


222  IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS. 

Lands  and  went  out.  Only  a  faint  light  came  in  froir 
the  dining-room  across  the  hall.  Sophia,  who  had  moved 
restlessly  about  to  attract  my  attention  for  some  little 
time,  now  came  in  at  the  parlor  door. 

"  Ann  Day  went  away  without  her  money  this  even 
ing,"  she  said,  in  a  hard,  practical  way  that  grated  on  me 
unbearably. 

I  was  leaning  back  in  the  chair,  my  eyes  shut.  I 
did  not  open  them,  but  said  "  did  she  ?"  in  a  tone  of  in 
difference  that  seemed  to  make  her  angry.  She  went 
about  slamming  the  shutters,  fastening  the  door;  pres 
ently  she  said,  taking  her  lamp  in  her  hand : 

"  It  is  half  past  twelve  o'clock." 

"  I  heard  it  strike,"  I  answered,  not  moving,  nor 
even  opening  my  eyes.  She  went  away  angry.  I  de 
fied  her  so  far  as  I  was  capable  of  having  any  feeling 
toward  her.  She  had  done  me  all  the  ill  she  could ; 
she  would  never  trouble  me  again.  My  long  strain 
had  exhausted  me.  I  lay  back  listless  in  my  chair : 
several  minutes  passed,  I  heard  her  moving  about  in 
the  open  chamber  outside  the  nursery,  closing  the  one 
small  window  in  it.  Then  I  heard  her  go  up  the  attic 
stairs,  and  walk  across  the  bare  floor  to  the  end  of  the 
rough,  empty  space,  where  the  Indian  woman  slept.  I 
knew  she  always  went  up  there,  before  she  went  to  bed 
herself,  to  see  that  the  woman  had  put  out  her  light 
and  left  the  scuttle  safe  in  case  a  shower  should  come 
up  in  the  night.  She  came  down,  and  shut  the  door 
of  the  stair-way.  Then  she  went  to  the  door  of  the 
kitchen  stair-way,  and  tried  it.  I  heard  her  mutter 
angrily  something  about  the  woman  having  left  it  open. 
She  shot  the  bolt  with  wrath,  and  then  went  on  into 
the  nursery. 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  223 

A  moment,  perhaps  two,  passed,  and  then  a  shriek, 
the  most  agonizing  and  blood-curdling  that  human  voice 
ever  uttered,  smote  my  ear.  I  started  bewildered  to  my 
feet  and  grasped  the  table  for  support.  Another,  and 
another,  then  a  silence ;  I  could  not  move,  my  limbs 
had  no  power  in  them,  I  seemed  under  a  spell.  An 
other  moment,  and  Sophia  stood  in  the  door-way,  hold 
ing  a  light  in  her  hand ;  her  face  was  horrible  to  look 
at,  white,  stricken,  with  eyes  that  blazed  with  evil, 
evil  fire. 

"  Come  and  see,"  she  said  in  tones  that  hissed, 
"  come  and  see  your  lover's  work." 

I  did  not  move.  She  darted  towards  me  seized  my 
wrist  with  a  grasp  of  steel,  and  dragged  me  on  into  the 
open  chamber. 

"  Come  with  me,  come  with. "me  and  see,"  she  kept 
repeating  wildly. 

But  at  the  nursery  door  her  grasp  relaxed,  she  fell 
down  shuddering  in  a  sort  of  swoon  ;  the  light  fell  with 
her  and  went  out.  I  stood  on  the  threshold,  in  utter 
darkness ;  I  could  not  even  see  the  outline  of  the  nurs 
ery  window,  though  it  had  stood  wide  open.  It  was 
the  nursery  lamp  that  Sophia  had  held  :  that  in  the  din 
ing-room  she  had  put  out.  My  thoughts  would  not 
come ;  where  were  the  matches  kept,  how  should  I  get 
a  light  ?  A  sort  of  paralysis  came  over  me,  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do,  I  could  not  have  done  it  at  that  in 
stant  if  I  had.  I  didn't  know  what  I  feared.  I  grasped 
the  door-post  with  my  hand — my  feet  were  against  the 
senseless  body  of  Sophia  lying  stretched  across  the 
threshold.  There  was  such  a  stillness,  such  an  inky 
darkness.  I  don't  know  how  many  minutes  it  was  be 
fore  I  regained  intelligence  and  force  enough  to  decide 


22-t  IN    THE    BROODING     DARKNESS. 

where  and  how  I  should  get  a  light.  I  could  remember 
no  place  where  the  matches  stood  but  in  ray  own  room. 
I  put  out  my  hands  and  guided  myself  by  the  rough 
boarding  across  the  chamber,  to  my  door.  I  stumbled 
over  something  lying  just  inside  it ;  trembling  and  al 
most  senseless  with  fear,  I  put  down  my  hand.  It  was 
only  an  overturned  foot-stool.  I  was  in  the  presence  of 
I  knew  not  what  horror ;  my  hand  might  touch  it  the 
next  minute.  I  groped  along  to  the  dressing-table 
where  the  match-box  stood  ;  too  bewildered  to  be  care 
ful  I  guided  my  hand  badly,  and  struck  over  a  china 
vase  which  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  iloor ;  the  sound 
seemed  frightful  to  me  in  my  excited  state.  I  listened 
for  some  terrible  result. 

"  It  will  wake  the  children,"  I  thought ;  but  a 
heavy,  dumb  silence  fell.  I  could  hear  the  beating  of 
my  heart.  At  last  1  reached  the  matches,  but  my 
hand  shook  so,  I  could  not  make  a  light  till  I  had  tried 
many  times.  The  candle  stood  near — another  mo 
ment — and  the  faint,  reassuring  light  nickered  under 
my  eyes.  I  looked  around.  There  was  the  over 
turned  footstool  and  the  broken  vase ;  there  was 
nothing  else  out  of  place.  I  must  go  to  the  children. 
It  was  in  the  nursery  that  Sophia  had  uttered  that 
iirst  awful  shriek;  ah!  what  was  I  to  see?  The  chil 
dren — 1  must  get  to  them. 

I  made  my  way  back  across  the  open  chamber  to 
where  Sophia  lay.  Where  was  Ilex  ?  why  did  he  not 
bark '(  why  was  it  so  awfully  still  \  As  I  went,  the 
faintly-lighted  candle  nickered  with  the  motion,  and 
threatened  to  go  out.  I  put  my  hand  before  it. 
Sophia  had  struck  her  arm  as  she  fell ;  there  was  a  lit 
tle  trickle  of  blood  across  the  hand  that  lay  outstretched 


IN    THE    BROODING    DARKNESS.  225 

upon  the  sill.  I  stepped  over  it,  and  stood  inside  the 
room.  Breathlessly  I  held  up  the  candle,  and  glanced 
around.  It  was  all  in  the  order  in  which  I  had  left  it 
four  hours  before ;  nothing  seemed  out  of  place. 
There  were  Maidy's  shoes  upon  the  chair,  acd  Baby's 
snowy,  folded  clothes,  and  the  tiny  sack  hanging  on 
the  back;  the  sponges,  the  towels,  all  as  I  had  seen 
them  then.  Had  Sophia  lost  her  reason  ?  What  mys 
tery  was  I  surrounded  by  ? 

I  drew  a  deeper  breath,  but  with  a  palpitating  heart 
came  near  the  children's  cribs.  I  saw  the  blankets 
were  disarranged  ;  Baby  lay  half-uncovered.  I  went  in 
between  the  cribs,  and  stooped  down  eagerly,  holding 
the  candle  low. 

There  lay  my  Baby ;  her  little  head  thrown  back 
upon  the  pillow,  her  lips  apart,  her  limbs  drawn  up ; 
around  her  slender  throat  a  slight  darkening  of  the  flesh, 
as  of  a  violent,  compressing  hand.  The  arm  that  lay 
upon  the  coverlid  was  strangely  cold.  I  put  my  hand 
upon  her  heart ;  the  flesh  was  cold ;  there  was  no  motion. 
I  held  the  flame  before  her  lips ;  it  did  not  flicker. 

Maidy's  body  lay  outstretched,  her  face  down  upon 
the  pillow,  which  was  bent  about  it,  as  if  it  had  been 
held  together ;  her  curls  were  tangled  and  torn,  a  great 
handful  of  loose  hair  lay  upon  the  blanket ;  her  arms, 
relaxed,  lay  at  her  sides.  She  was  quite  cold. 
10* 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE   COURT-ROOM. 

"  From  its  intensity  of  aim 

Our  whole  life  aimless  seemed  ; 
The  very  stern  reality 
Made  us  almost  think  we  dreamed." 

Fdber. 

"COLONEL,  we're  all  ready  now,  if  you'll  tell  the 
\J  carriage  to  come  round  ;  it  is  quite  time,"  and 
Sophia  opened  the  door,  and  put  her  head  into  the  next 
room  to  the  one  \vhere  I  sat.  It  was  a  large,  old-fashioned 
room,  with  a  low  ceiling.  The  furniture  was  common 
and  plain,  such  as  one  usually  finds  in  country  inns. 
An  air-tight  stove  filled  with  hard  coal,  made  the  air 
detestable.  It  was  quite  unnecessary,  for  it  was  only 
October,  and  the  day  was  not  unusually  cold.  It  had 
been  lighted,  however,  for  my  comfort,  and  I  did  not 
think  of  making  a  complaint.  The  colonel  came  anx 
iously  forward  into  the  room,  followed  by  his  wife. 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,"  he  said.  "  Now  take 
my  arm.  Do  you  think  you  feel  quite  able  ?" 

Mrs.  Emlyn  was  looking  at  me  with  unspeakable 
solicitude.  Sophia  went  upon  the  other  side  of  me, 
her  eyes  upon  my  face  with  leaden  scrutiny. 

"  Put  that  other  bottle  of  salts  in  your  pocket,"  she 
[226] 


THE     COUKT-KOOM.  227 

said,  looking  back  at  Mrs.  Emlyn,  who  had  fallen  be 
hind  ;  "  it's  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side ;  we  might  get 
separated." 

The  colonel  leaned  down  every  minute  to  look  at 
me.     It  gave  me  a  feeling  of  dreadful  irritation  to  be 
so  watched.     AVhen  we  got  into  the  lower  hall,  and* 
were  going  towards  the  front  door,  Sophia  took  hold 
of  my  veil. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  put  it  down  ?"  she  said. 

My  arm  was  over  it.  I  held  it  tight  in  its  position, 
and  made  no  answer.  Outside  there  were  only  a  few 
people  standing  about ;  they  had  not  known  that  we 
were  there.  The  colonel  put  me  in  the  carriage,  his 
wife  beside  me,  Sophia  and  himself  on  the  seat  oppo 
site.  The  fresh  air  revived  me ;  I  leaned  back  and 
looked  out.  It  was  a  strange  village,  or  rather  town  ; 
the  county  town,  in  fact ;  there  were  a  good  many  shops, 
and  some  pretentious  houses  with  cupolas  and  bay- 
windows  close  to  the  street.  It  seems  all  very  quiet ; 
there  was  very  little  stir. 

"  Did  she  eat  any  breakfast  ?"  said  the  colonel,  in 
a  low  tone,  to  Sophia. 

Sophia  shook  her  head.  "  She  won't  make  the 
effort.  There  is  no  use  in  talking  to  her." 

Mrs.  Emlyii  made  her  an  imperious  sign  to  stop. 
She  was  the  only  one  who  understood  that  I  needed  to 
be  let  alone.  My  eyes  rested  on  Sophia's  face,  while 
she  covered  her  annoyance  by  busying  herself  taking  a 
key  oft'  a  bunch  that  she  took  out  from  her  pocket. 
Her  black  clothes  made  her  face  look  very  pale,  and 
her  hair,  which,  a  month  ago,  had  been  but  very  slightly 
gray,  was  now  as  white  as  snow.  There  were  dark 
circles  round  her  eyes ;  her  face  was  most  striking ; 


228  THE     COURT-ROOM. 

her  lips  bacl  a  feverish  look  ;  there  were  deep  lines 
about  her  tirm-set  mouth. 

The  kind  colonel  looked  ageJ  and  worn.  His  man 
ner  was  a  little  flurried,  though  he  spoke  with  great 
coolness  and  precision.  Mrs.  Etnlyn  had  a  look  of  such 
intense  self -repression  that  it  was  painful  to  meet  her 
eye.  She  spoke  little,  and  seemed  ever  to  be  guarding 
me  from  the  words  of  others. 

When  we  approached  the  court-house,  I  saw  why 
the  rest  of  the  town  had  seemed  quiet.  Vehicles  of 
all  sorts  and  kinds  stood  thick  around  it ;  all  the  posts, 
and  fences,  and  trees  in  sight,  had  horses  tied  to  them. 
Men  were  coming  and  going  in  through  the  wide  open 
door,  boys  were  swarming  round  the  windows,  looking 
in.  We  drove  to  a  side  door,  and  no  one  noticed  us. 
An  officious  deputy  in  black  clothes,  who  had  been 
waiting  for  us,  came  forward  alertly,  and  opened  the 
door  of  the  carriage. 

"  All  right,  this  way,"  he  said. 

I  put  down  my  great  sweeping  crape  veil,  and 
Sophia  looked  relieved. 

"  This  way,"  he  said,  going  forward.  "  Would  the 
lady  like  a  glass  of  water  '?"  he  added,  as  we  entered  a 
sort  of  ante-room.  I  shook  my  head. 

"  It's  always  handy  in  the  court-room,"  he  said.  "  I 
always  keep  it  handy.  You've  only  to  look  at  me  if 
you  feel  faint,  and  you'll  have  a  glass  of  water  quick  as 
wink." 

"  She  isn't  going  to  feel  faint,"  said  Mrs.  Emlyn, 
standing  between  him  and  me. 

"  Of  course  not,  of  course  not,"  he  said.  "  Only  it 
wouldn't  be  to  wonder  at  after  all  she  has  gone  through." 

Then  he  went  forward  and  cleared  the  way  for  us ; 


THE     COUKT-EOOM.  229 

he  seemed  to  do  everything  with  so  much  satisfaction 
to  himself,  with  such  a  clerkly  zeal.  I  don't  clearly 

t/  «/ 

know  what  happened  for  a  few  moments  after  this. 
My  veil  was  so  oppressive  that  after,  in  a  great  hush,  I 
had  been  led  to  my  seat,  with  the  colonel  on  one  side  and 
Sophia  on  the  other,  I  verified  their  prognostications, 
and  began  to  feel  deadly  ill. 

"  It  is  only  the  veil,"  I  tried  to  say  to  the  colonel, 
who  bent  nervously  over  me. 

"  Take  the  d d  thing  off,"  he  whispered  hoarse 
ly  to  Sophia,  who  was  thrusting  sal  volatile  in  my 
face. 

She  threw  the  veil  back  ;  the  deputy  rushed  forward 
with  his  glass  of  water.  Somebody  opened  a  window 
beside  me  :  in  a  moment  I  was  better.  I  motioned  to 
Sophia  to  sit  down.  She  twitched  the  colonel's  coat 
and  he  sat  down  too.  There  was  a  great  hush  again. 

We  had  come  in  through  a  side  door,  and  were  led 
along  in  front  of  where  the  jury  sat,  past  the  raised 
platform  of  the  judge,  to  some  seats  in  a  railed-off  space, 
corresponding  to  that  in  which  they  sat.  Between  us 
and  the  jury  was  the  judge's  platform.  I  could  not  see 
the  faces  of  the  jurors.  On  each  hand  of  the  judge  sat 
a  side  judge,  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Below  this  plat 
form,  on  a  level  with  us,  was  the  clerk's  desk.  In  front 
of  this,  and  running  half  the  width  of  the  room,  was  a 
long  table,  at  which  the  lawyers  sat.  All  this  was  railed 
off  from  the  room  ;  beyond  were  tiers  of  seats,  packed 
with  people,  rows  and  rows  of  faces  turned  towards  us. 
The  aisle  was  filled  with  men  and  women  standing ; 
the  door-way  was  crammed  with  heads. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  the  trial.  The  day  before 
the  prisoner  had  been  arraigned  at  the  bar ;  hud  pleaded 


230  THE     COUET-EOOM. 

not  guilty ;  the  day  had  been  consumed  in  the  impan 
elling  of  the  jury.  This  morning  the  examination  of 
the  witnesses  was  to  begin. 

The  first  witness  called  was  Sophia  Atkinson. 
When  her  name  sounded,  I  began  to  come  out  of  the 
haze  of  confusion  consequent  upon  my  faintness,  and 
the  entering  upon  such  a  strange  scene.  Sophia  grew 
a  little  white,  and  I  saw  her  nostrils  dilate  convulsively  ; 
but  she  got  up  without  looking  at  any  one,  and  walked 
with  a  firm  step  along  in  front  of  the  lawyers'  table  to 
the  witness-box,  which  was  at  the  right  of  the  judge's 
platform,  in  front  of  the  jury.  This  was  raised  some 
what  above  our  level,  but  not  to  the  height  of  the 
platform.  When  she  took  her  seat,  however,  I  could 
still  see  her  face.  The  prosecuting  attorney  stood  up 
in  his  place,  which  was  at  the  right  end  of  the  lawyers' 
table,  and  began  examining  her.  She  answered  in  a 
firm  voice,  from  which,  after  the  first  sentence  or  two, 
all  huskiness  of  agitation  disappeared.  After  being 
sworn  and  giving  her  name,  he  asked  her  place  of  resi 
dence. 

"  South  Berwick,  in  the  old  house  known  as  Dot- 
mold's,  on  the  main  road,  half  a  mile  up  from  the 
beach." 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  there  ?" 

"  Since  the  nineteenth  of  May  last." 

"  What  is  your  occupation  ?" 

"  I  am  a  nurse." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  family  in  which 
you  now  live  as  nurse  2" 

"  Since  my  fourteenth  year ;  I  am  now  thirty-three 
years  old." 

The  lawyer,  who  was  blond  and  bland,  waved  his 


THE     COURT-ROOM.  231 

hand :  "  Only  answer  the  questions  put  you.  You 
have  been  there  nineteen  years  then,  I  understand  ?" 

"  Nineteen  years,"  said  Sophia,  briefly. 

"  Look  at  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  and  tell  me  if  you 
know  him." 

I  followed  Sophia's  glance ;  it  went  straight  to 
the  table  where  the  lawyers  were,  at  the  end  near  our 
seats.  I  had  not  seen  him  before,  in  the  confusion  of 
faces  and  voices  around  me.  Her  eyes  and  mine  fell 
on  him  at  the  same  moment.  lie  sat  with  his  back 
towards  the  railing,  against  which  the  people  pressed  ; 
his  head  was  bent  down ;  he  leaned  a  little  on  the 
table;  his  face  was  turned  towards  the  witness-box. 
She  must  have  met  his  glance  full,  but  she  never 
quailed. 

"I  know  him,"  she  said. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  him  ?" 

"  Since  the  second  or  third  of  June  last." 

"  How  often  have  you  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing 
him  since  then  2" 

"  Every  day ;  sometimes  two  or  three  times  a 
day." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  in  the  house,  or  in  the  street, 
or  where  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  him  principally  in  the  house,  where 
he  came  every  day." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  why  he  came  there  every  day  ?" 

"  To  see  my  mistress,  I  suppose." 

"When  did  these  visits  begin?  As  early  as  the 
second  or  third  of  June  ?" 

"  They  began  then,  but  they  did  not  become  daily 
till  a  fortnight  later,  I  should  think." 

"  Did  he  generally  come  alone  ?" 


232  THE     COUET-EOOM. 

"Sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  the  Ernlyn 
children,  whom  he  taught." 

'  O 

"How  did  he  occupy  himself  during  these  visits  at 
the  house?" 

"  Laughing  and  talking  with  her  and  with  the  chil 
dren  ;  more  often  with  her  alone." 

"  Did  she  go  out  with  him  alone  ?'' 

"  Never  that  I  can  recollect." 

"How  did  your  mistress  seem  to  receive  these 
visits  ?" 

"  She  seemed  to  like  them  ;  she  was  always  friends 
with  him." 

"  Did  she  have  any  disagreement  with  him  ever — 
any  quarrel  ?" 

"Never  any  quarrel  that  I  can  remember." 

"  State  anything  that  you  can  recollect  about  what 
occurred  at  any  of  these  visits ;  what  you  noticed  be 
tween  them  ;  in  his  manner  to  her,  for  instance." 

"  Well,  he  was  always  making  excuses  to  come ; 
he  was  always  bringing  her  her  letters  from  the  office, 
or  shells  or  things  for  the  children,  or  some  message 
from  the  other  house.  He  always  seemed  to  be  follow 
ing  her  about  with  his  eyes,  and  to  be  trying  to  keep 
her  attention  to  himself  when  there  was  anybody  else 
in  the  room.  He  acted  like  a  man  that  wants  to  make 
a  woman  like  him." 

"  How  did  she  treat  him — kindly  ?" 

"  I  object,"  said  the  prisoner's  counsel,  rising. 

"  On  what  grounds  ?"  the  judge  asked. 

"  On  the  ground  of  irrelevancy  ;  it  is  too  remote,  at 
least." 

"  What  have  you  to  say  in  favor  of  your  objection  ? 
I  will  hear  you  on  that  point,  Mr.  Hardinge." 


THE     COUET-EOOM.  2-03 

"  "Well,  sir,  in  the  first  place,  what  lias  tliis  lady's 
treatment  of  the  prisoner  got  to  do  with  the  murder  of 
these  children  ?  The  lady  is  not  on  trial  here.  This  is 
the  trial  of  Bernard  Macnally.  If  she  treated  him  well, 
that  does  not  show  us  any  motive  for  the  killing  of  her 
children.  My  learned  brother  doesn't  offer  to  show 
that  she  and  the  prisoner  were  at  enmity.  lie  has 
proved  the  contrary  by  this  witness.  In  his  opening 
yesterday,  he  disclosed  no  purpose  of  that  sort.  This 
evidence  is  too  remote.  It  puts  the  mother  of  the  mur 
dered  children  on  trial.  I  am  not  retained  to  defend 
her." 

The  blond  and  bland  prosecutor  looked  nettled.  He 
had  a  skin  that  showed  his  emotions  ;  besides,  his  coun 
try  breeding  gave  him  less  hardihood  in  argument. 
His  opponent,  the  prisoner's  counsel,  was  a  lawyer  of 
eminence,  a  close  thinker,  an  adroit  pleader,  hardened 
by  years  of  city  practice.  It  was  like  putting  half  a 
dozen  green,  strong,  strapping,  country  fellows  against 
a  trained,  professional  wrestler.  He  could  throw  them 
all  into  a  heap,  and  walk  unlimping  off  the  field.  Mr. 
Bell  had  plenty  of  help,  but  he  knew  he  needed  it,  and 
he  felt  unpleasantly  that  his  trials  were  beginning  early, 
in  the  examination  of  hia  very  first  witness. 

Mr.  Hardinge  was  a  man  of  middle  size,  rather 
slight  than  stout.  He  was  probably  not  more  than 
forty-five  years  old,  though  his  moustache  and  hair  were 
very  grizzled,  while  his  well-drawn  eyebrows  were  still 
quite  black.  His  head  was  admirably  shaped,  his  fea 
tures  regular.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  very  penetrat 
ing  ;  he  had  a  manner  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  was, 
professionally,  offensive.  There  was  a  terrible  hardness 
about  him,  a*d  his  opponents  always  prepared  for  the 


234  THE     COURT-KOOM. 

worst.  The  liglit-liaired  and  suffused  Mr.  Bell  felt  bel 
ligerent  to  his  fingers'  ends.  Mr.  Hardinge  seemed  to 
feel  nothing. 

"  Your  Honor?'  said  Mr.  Bell,  when  the  judge  indi 
cated  to  him  that  he  would  hear  his  reply,  "  I  propose 
to  show  that  this  lady  and  the  prisoner  were  on  terms 
of  intimacy ;  that  that  intimacy  had  ripened  into  an 
affection,  which  was  mutual.  I  propose  to  show  what 
was  in  her  heart,,  as  well  as  what  was  in  his." 

"  There  you  propose  to  show  too  much,"  retorted 
Mr.  Hardinge.  "  The  jury  will  have  to  wait  till  the 
day  of  judgment  to  know  that." 

Prosecuting  attorney.  "  My  theory,  if  I  can  be 
allowed  to  state  it  without  interruption,  is  that  the  pris 
oner  at  the  bar  committed  this  crime,  to  rid  himself  of 
the  only  obstacle  in  the  way  of  gaining  the  woman 
whom  he  sought.  I  will  show  this  before  I  have  got 
through  with  the  witness  on  the  stand,  if,  as  I  say,  I 
can  be  permitted  to  go  on." 

Mr.  Hardinge.  "  This  prosecution,  your  Honor, 
had  its  origin  in  a  public  clamor  for  the  life  of  the 
prisoner ;  race  prejudices  are  all  against  him,  enemies 
have  been  fanning  the  flame,  senseless  stories  have 

o  / 

been  set  afloat,  which  it  shall  be  my  care  to  show  at 
their  true  value.  I  am  glad  to  see,  at  this  early  date, 
that  the  theory  of  the  prosecution  is  breaking  down 
by  its  own  weight.  No  counsel,  however  ingenious, 
could  carry  far  such  a  burden  of,  I  will  not  say  incon 
gruities,  but  impossibilities,  as  is  here  presented  to  the 
jury.  A  man,  in  sound  mind  (I  do  not  set  up  the 
plea  of  madness  for  my  client,  though  my  brother  of 
the  prosecution  offers  it  to  me  so  gratuitously),  a  man 
in  sound  mind,  educated,  refined,  and  of  apparently 


THE    COUET-KOOM.  235 

high  moral  character,  proposes  to  himself  to  take  the 
life  of  a  child,  whom  he  knows  to  be  a  part  of  the  very 
existence  of  its  mother,  to  gain  a  stronger  hold  upon 
the  affections  of  that  mother  !  Your  Honor,  does  this 
theory  commend  itself  to  your  intelligence  ?  I  fancy 
the  stubborn,  solid,  common  sense  of  Sutphen  county 
will  revolt  at  this.  I  fancy  it  will  take  more  legal  in 
genuity  than  the  century  has  yet  developed,  to  prove 
to  the  minds  of  this  jury  that  a  man  might  devise  to 
himself  the  wisdom  of  cutting  off  the  left  hand  of  his 
mistress,  that  she  might  more  trustingly  put  in  his  her 
right !  Tho  proposed  testimony  shows,  at  most,  that  the 
prisoner  had  no  motive  for  the  commission  of  the 
crime." 

Prosecuting  Attorney.  "Then  I  contend  it  is 
admissible." 

Defendant's  Counsel.  "  On  the  contrary,  we  will 
prove  the  want  of  motive  in  the  prisoner.  That  is  our 
affair.  You  have  no  retainer  from  the  prisoner  to  pre 
sent  his  case.  It  is  the  part  of  the  prosecution  to  prove 
an  adequate  motive  for  the  commission  of  the  crime, 
and  the  part  of  the  defence  to  show  a  want  of  motive." 

Judge.  "  I  will  sustain  the  objection  so  far  as  to 
disallow  the  question  in  this  form.  The  witness  can 
state  what  she  has  seen." 

Attorney  for  tJie  Prosecution.  "State  what  you 
have  ever  seen  or  heard  during  his  visits." 

Witness.     "  Well,  she  always  was  pleasant." 

Attorney.  "  When  he  brought  her  flowers  or  pres 
ents,  was  she  much  affected  by  it  ?" 

Witness.  "  I  don't  remember  that  he  ever  brought 
her  any." 


236  THE    COURT-ROOM. 

Attorney.  "When  he  didn't  come,  or  anything 
like  that,  did  she  seem  disappointed  and  unhappy  ?" 

Witness.  "I  don't  remember  any  time  that  he 
didn't  come.  He  was  always  coming." 

(A  faint  ripple  of  amusement  through  the  court 
room.) 

I  saw  that,  in  a  certain  sense,  Sophia  was  loyal  to 
me.  Much  as  she  hated  and  desired  to  ruin  Macnally, 
she  would  never  degrade  me,  according  to  her  view,  to 
the  attitude  of  having  favored  him  ;  throughout  she 
would  make  him  my  rejected  suitor.  The  attorney 
asked  her  several  more  questions  which  I  have  forgot 
ten,  all  aiming  at  establishing  my  preference  for  him. 
Sophia  stubbornly  put  me  forward  as  amiable  and 
gentle,  "  kind  to  a  visitor,  as  any  lady  would  be,"  but 
her  memory  served  her  for  nothing  beyond  that — noth 
ing.  He  finally  gave  up  the  matter  and  told  her  to  state 
where  she  was,  and  how  occupied,  on  the  evening  of  the 
second  of  September. 

"  State,  in  your  own  words,  all  that  you  remember 
of  what  happened  after  you  had  put  the  children  to  bed 
on  the  evening  of  that  day." 

"  The  children  were  both  asleep  before  the  clock 
struck  seven.  I  put  the  nursery  in  order,  as  I  always 
do.  Then  I  went  down-stairs,  and  told  the  Indian  wo 
man  to  go  up  to  bed  early,  for  she  had  been  out  late 
the  night  before,  and  looked  very  sleepy.  She  was  sit 
ting  by  the  fire.  The  supper  things  were  all  washed 
up,  and  the  kitchen  looked  tidy.  I  told  her  to  be  sure 
and  shut  all  the  doors  fast  when  she  went  up.  I  gen 
erally  tell  her  that.  I  trust  her  to  shut  up  always. 
Then  I  took  my  sewing,  and  went  into  the  dining- 
room,  which  adjoins  the  nursery,  and  sat  down  by  the 


THE    COURT-ROOM.  237 

lamp.  The  door  was  shut  that  goes  into  the  nursery 
from  the  dining-room,  but  all  the  other  doors  on  that 
floor  were  open.  It  was  a  hot  night.  I  shut  that  door 
because  I  didn't  want  the  children  to  be  disturbed  by 
the  light,  or  by  any  noise  that  I  might  make.  About 
the  time  that  it  struck  eight,  I  remember  noticing  that 
my  mistress  was  moving  about  in  the  other  room,  the 
parlor,  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  entry.  She  went 
into  the  nursery  after  a  few  minutes  and  staid  there  a 
considerable  time,  I  should  think  twenty  minutes.  Then 
I  heard  her  come  back  and  sit  down  in  the  parlor,  and 
for  a  good  little  piece  all  was  quiet.  Then  I  heard  the 
gate  open,  and  somebody  come  up  the  steps.  I  looked 
out  of  the  dining-room  door,  and  saw  the  prisoner  as  he 
came  in  at  the  front  door.  lie  looked  very  pale  and 
bad.  I  knew  he  was  going  away  for  good  that  night 
by  the  train.  I  had  heard  Naomi  Emlyn  say  so.  He 
went  into  the  parlor,  and  I  heard  their  voices,  talking, 
for  some  minutes.  I  couldn't  hear  what  either  of  them 
said,  I  was  too  far  off.  After  a  little  while,  my  mis 
tress  came  quickly  into  the  dining-room,  and  went  to 
the  sideboard  and  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  and  hur 
ried  out  with  it.  She  looked  frightened.  I  laid  down 
my  sewing,  and  went  out  on  the  balcony.  I  saw  her 
give  it  to  him,  and  saw  that  he  was  lying  back  in  the 
big  chair,  looking  very  ill.  She  stood  before  him ;  I 
couldn't  see  her  face,  nor  hear  what  she  said,  because 
her  back  was  to  the  window,  outside  of  which  I  stood, 
and  they  were  over  the  far  side  of  the  room.  Presently 
lie  seemed  better,  and  she  sat  down  by  the  table  near 
him.  She  looked  very  sad,  and  as  if  she  was  sorry  for 
him.  He  looked  dreadfully  cut  up.  They  talked,  but 
I  didn't  hear  anything  they  said.  Presently  she  looked 


238  THE    COURT-ROOM. 

up  at  the  clock,  and  then  lie  got  up,  and  then  she.  He 
said  '  Good-bye.'  He  looked  awfully.  They  had  then 
moved  nearer  the  window,  and  I  could  hear  what  both 
of  them  said  distinctly.  I  heard  him  say,  '  Why  must 
I  go?'  I  heard  her  say,  l  You  must  go,  but  don't  go 
without  being  friends  with  me.'  Then  he  said  some 
thing  that  1  didn't  understand ;  and  then  he  said,  '  It  is 
your  children  stand  between  us,  you  cannot  say  it  is  not. 
You  aren't  willing  to  trust  them  to  me,  whatever  you 
might  be  willing  for  yourself.'  His  voice  fell  then  ;  he 
said  something  that  I  couldn't  hear,  and  she  did  too. 
Then  I  heard  her  say,  '  Good-bye.  You  ought  to  go, 
you  will  be  left.'  He  let  go  her  hand,  which  he  had 
had  hold  of,  and  took  a  step  or  two  into  the  entry. 
Then  I  heard  him  say,  '  The  children  are  asleep  ? 
Mayn't  I  look  at  them  before  I  go  ?'  Then  I  heard 
him  go  through  the  hall,  and  into  the  room  that  leads 
into  the  nursery.  He  was  gone  about  three  minutes, 
I  should  think  ;  it  seemed  to  me  a  gcod  while,  but  the 
clock  hadn't  struck  nine  yet,  and  the  train  wrent  at  nine 
fifteen.  Tliat  was  why  I  noticed.  I  thought  he  meant 
to  get  left.  When  he  came  out,  I  was  standing  behind 
the  blind  door,  which  was  standing  part  way  open — I 
mean,  not  folded  back  against  the  house.  He  could 
not  see  me.  I  looked  through  it  right  into  the  entry. 
He  came  from  the  open  chamber  into  the  hall.  My 
mistress  stood  in  the  door  of  the  parlor,  half  in  the 
hall,  waiting  for  him.  He  looked  as  white  as  a  sheet. 
He  did  not  offer  to  take  her  hand  again,  or  to  say  good 
bye  over,  as  I  thought  he'd  have  been  sure  to  do.  He 
just  looked  at  her,  a  kind  of  desperate  look,  and  passed 
right  by  her,  and  went  out,  pushing  the  blind  door  back. 


THE    COUET-EOOM.  239 

and  down  the  steps,  and  through  the  gate,  and  out  into 
the  road." 

There  had  been  the  deep  hush  of  intense  listening 
over  the  whole  court-room.  As  her  voice  dropped,  and 
she  paused,  there  was  the  faint  sound  of  breaths  drawn 
deep,  of  heads  lifted — excitement  at  its  climax. 

"  You  say  the  clock  had  not  struck  nine  then  ?" 

"  No,  it  struck  just  after  he  went  down  the  steps.  I 
thought  he'd  barely  reach  the  train,  I  remember.  I 
went  back  into  the  dining-room  and  took  up  my  sewing. 
I  forgot  to  say,  just  before  he  came  into  the  house,  it 
must  have  been  half  past  eight  about,  I  heard  the  woman 
go  up-stairs  to  bed.  I  remember  the  time  particularly, 
because  I  looked  up  at  the  clock  and  said  to  myselt, 
she  wouldn't  have  been  in  bed  till  ten  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  fair  and  festival  of  the  night  before.  I  wondered 
to  myself  when  she  came  up  the  kitchen  stairs,  if  she 
hadn't  been  too  sleepy  to  put  out  the  fire.  I  heard  her 
go  up  the  attic  stairs  ;  I  heard  her  moving  about  over 
my  head ;  she  sleeps  at  the  end  of  the  garret  that  is 
over  the  dining-room.  In  a  few  minutes  all  was  quiet, 
and  I  never  heard  another  sound  from  there." 

"Did  your  mistress  go  back  into  the  parlor?  De 
scribe  what  followed  the  departure  of  the  prisoner." 

"  She  didn't  go  back  into  the  parlor.  She  went  out 
on  the  balcony.  I  went  on  with  my  sewing.  I  heard 
the  whistle  of  the  train  as  it  went  off  ;  I  sat  and  sewed 
a  long  time.  Once  or  twice  I  got  up,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  I  didn't  leave  the  dining-room  that 
evening  except  once  to  go  on  the  balcony  and  see 
if  she  wanted  me.  I  heard  the  clock  strike  ten,  then 
eleven,  then  twelve.  I  had  a  piece  of  work  that  I 
wanted  very  much  to  finish." 


240  THE    COURT-ROOM. 

"  Do  you  often  sit  up  as  late  as  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  I  arn  busy  with  anything  I  have  in 
hand ;  sometimes  a  good  deal  later." 

"During  this  time  you  did  not  hear  any  sound  about 
the  house  ?" 

"  I  heard  nothing  at  all.  It  was  a  still  night.  There 
wasn't  any  wind.  I  have  very  quick  ears." 

"  How  about  your  mistress  ?  Did  she  go  in  the 
house  ?" 

"  Never,  once.  If  she  had  gone  in,  I  couldn't  have 
helped  seeing  her  pass  the  dining-room  door.  If  she 
had  gone  down  the  steps,  I  couldn't  have  helped  hearing 
her." 

"  What  was  she  doing  there,  all  those  three  hours  ?" 

"  Sitting  still  and  resting,  I  suppose.  She  couldn't 
have  been  reading  ;  there  wasn't  light  enough.  It  was 
a  hot  night.  The  balcony  was  the  pleasantest  place  to 
be." 

"  Did  she  seem  unhappy,  depressed  ?" 

"  Couldn't  say." 

"  Didn't  you  have  any  conversation  with  her  ;  didn't 
you  speak  to  her  at  all  ?" 

"  I  asked  her  if  she  wanted  anything ;  she  said  she 
didn't ;  that  was  all  that  passed  between  us." 

"  About  what  time  did  she  go  into  the  house  ?" 

"  A  little  after  twelve,  I  should  think." 

"  Relate  what  occurred  after  she  went  in." 

"  She  went  into  the  parlor  and  sat  down.  The  lamp 
had  gone  out  there  ;  she  sat  in  the  dark.  After  a  little 
while  I  got  up  and  went  into  the  room,  and  said  some 
thing  to  her  about  the  house,  I  think.  She  didn't  seem, 
to  take  much  interest.  Then  I  went  about  and  began 
to  shut  up.  I  thought  she  ought  to  be  going  to  bed  ; 


THE    COURT-ROOM. 

it's  bad  for  people  to  sit  up  so  late,  when  they  haven't 
any  work  to  do  and  can  just  as  well  go  to  bed  as  not. 
After  I  had  shut  up  the  front  part  of  the  house,  I  went 
up-stairs,  and  saw  the  Indian  woman  fast  asleop  in  her 
bed.  Then  I  went  to  the  rear  of  the  open  chamber,  and 
fastened  the  window.  It  was  then  half  past  twelve.  I 
had  heard  the  clock  strike,  and  had  told  her,  to  remind 
her  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  I  found  the  nursery  in 
order,  as  I  left  it.  I  moved  around  a  little,  putting 
away  my  work,  and  getting  out  something  from  the 
closet.  By  and  by  I  lifted  the  lamp  from  the  corner 
where  it  stood,  behind  a  screen,  and  went  over  towards 
the  children's  cribs,  to  look  at  them  as  I  always  do,  the 
last  thing  before  I  go  to  bed." 

A  choking  sound  rose  in  the  woman's  throat ;  she 
stopped  speaking,  bent  her  head  down  a  little,  and  with 
her  hand  beat  nervously  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair  in 
which  she  sat.  A  low  murmur  of  sympathy  came  from 
the  women  in  the  crowd  of  listeners.  I  knew  she  was 
making  a  stern  fight  for  self-control,  and  I  knew,  too, 
that  she  would  conquer.  Presently  she  lifted  her  head, 
and  went  on  in  a  steady  voice. 

"  I  went  to  the  little  one  first ;  she  sleeps  on  the  out 
side,  so  I  can  get  at  her  easiest;  the  oldest  little  girl's 
crib  is  in  the  corner ;  there  is  room  to  pass  in  between 
the  two  cribs.  I  saw — she  wasn't  as  I  left  her.  My 
first  thought  was  she  had  had  a  fit  or  something.  Her 
little  legs  were  drawn  up  as  if  she  had  a  hard  pain,  her 
head  was  way  back  on  the  pillow,  her  mouth  was  open 
— she  looked  as  children  do  in  convulsions,  except  that 
she  hadn't  that  drawn  look  about  the  face.  I  put  down 
the  light  and  seized  her  in  my  arms.  I  felt  as  I  touched 
her  that  she  was  very  cold.  I  don't  know  what  I  did 
11 


24:2  THE    COUET-EOOM. 

~  T 

then — for  a  minute,  my  thought  was  she  had  had  a  fit. 
I  didn't  see  the  mark  on  her  throat  that  I  saw  after 
wards.  I  was  in  such  a  sort  of  taking  for  a  second  I 
didn't  know  which  way  to  turn.  I  had  a  feeling  I 
must  get  her  in  a  hot  bath.  I  was  afraid  to  tell  her 
mother.  I  generally  do  everything  for  them  myself. 
I  caught  up  the  lamp  and  ran  towards  the  stove  to  light 
the  fire.  As  I  passed  the  crib  where  the  other  little 
girl  was,  I  don't  know  how  it  happened  I  looked  at  her. 
I  wasn't  thinking  about  her.  I  saw  something  was 
wrong  with  her — she  was  lying  on  her  face — the  pillow 
was  jammed  about  her  head ;  she  couldn't  breathe  the 
way  she  lay.  I  ran  in  between  the  cribs  and  felt  of  her 
little  arm  that  lay  outside  the  covers — it  was  as  cold  as 
Baby's  was.  Her  ha'ir  was  torn  and  tangled.  Some  of 
it  that  had  been  torn  out  in  the  struggle  was  lying  on 
the  blanket  and  caught  in  the  sleeve  of  my  dress — I  found 
it  there  next  day.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing 
then.  I  ran  out  of  the  room  and  called  their  mother 
to  come  in  ;  my  screaming  frightened  her  so,  she  did  not 
move,  but  stood  still,  shaking.  I  caught  her  by  the 
hand  and  dragged  her  towards  the  room.  Before  I  got 
there,  I  fell  down  in  a  faint,  and  I  don't  know  anything 
that  happened  after  that  for  a  good  while." 

There  was  a  pause :  you  could  have  heard  the  rustle 
of  a  leaf. 

"Tell  us  what  you  remember  when  you  came  to 
your  senses." 

"  I  was  lying  just  where  I  fell :  Matilda,  the  Shinne- 
cock  woman,  was  crying  over  me.  I  saw  people  in  the 
room.  The  first  person  I  saw  to  know  was  the  doctor ; 
lie  was  stooping  down  over  the  baby.  The  mother  of 
the  children  sat  there  between  the  two  little  cribs ;  her 


THE    COUKT-ROOM.  243 

head  leaned  against  the  wall :  she  was  like  ashes  ;  she 
had  a  hand  on  each  of  the  cribs.  She  looked  at  every 
body  that  came  near.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  die. 
I  got  up  and  tried  to  go  to  her.  After  that  I  can't 
remember  very  much,  my  head  felt  so  light,  and  I 
couldn't  seem  to  think  of  the  same  thing  long  at  a 
time." 

"  Throw  your  mind  back,  and  recall,  if  you  please, 
some  of  the  incidents  of  that  day.  Who  came  to  the 
house  ?" 

"  The  grocer's  man  came  twice,  and  a  boy  from  the 
Neck  with  fish,  Matilda's  boy,  if  I  remember  right. 
There  was  a  woman  also,  who  comes  every  week  to 
wash  ;  she  came  at  seven  o'clock,  and  went  away  late 
in  the  afternoon.  And  old  Andrew  was  there  for  a 
couple  of  hours  in  the  morning,  splitting  wood.  That 
was  all,  except  a  man  who  came  along  and  asked  for 
something  to  eat.  Matilda  gave  him  something,  and  he 
went  off  down  the  lane.  Oh,  yes ;  Naomi  Ernlyn 
came  after  breakfast;  and  their  man  stopped  at  the 
gate  to  bring  some  letters,  which  hadn't  come  the  night 
before.  There  was  nobody  else  that  I  can  recollect." 

"  That  is  all,"  said  Mr.  Bell,  sitting  down,  with  a 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  prisoner's  counsel. 

Mr.  Hardinge  got  up  to  cross-examine  her ;  he  was 
very  deliberate.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  back  of  a 
chair,  glanced  at  some  memoranda  that  lay  before  him, 
and  turned  toward  Sophia. 

"  You  have  said,  I  think,  that  you  have  known  the 
prisoner  since  the  early  part  of  June  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  relations  with  him  during  this  time  were 
pleasant  ?" 


244:  THE    GOUET-EOOM. 

"I  didn't  have  any  relations  with  him.  I  didn't 
have  anything  at  all  to  do  with  him." 

"  How  was  that,  seeing  him  so  often  ?" 

"I  don't  hold  I'm  bound  to  have  pleasant  relations 
with  everybody  that  I  see  very  often." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  mean  us  to  understand  by 
that,  you  weren't  an  admirer  of  his,  exactly  ?" 

"  You  may  understand  what  you  like." 

"  Your  sex  are  sometimes  hard  to  understand. 
Here  is  a  young  gentleman,  of  good  address  and  high 
breeding,  coming  to  the  house  every  day.  He  was 
civil,  I've  no  doubt,  to  everybody  in  it.  Why  didn't 
he  please  you,  if  I  may  ask  the  question  ?" 

"  I  don't  admit  there  was  any  such  person  as  you 
describe  coming  to  the  house  every  day." 

"  Then  describe  the  person  that  did  come,  if  you 
can  do  it  more  correctly.  You  certainly  had  better 
opportunities  for  judging." 

"  A  common  Irishman,  lifting  his  eyes  to  his  bet 
ters,  was  the  man  I  saw ;  and  I  saw  him  for  nothing 
else,  from  the  first  time  that  he  darkened  the  door  till 
the  last  time  that  he  went  out  of  it,  leaving  our  chil 
dren  dead  behind  him." 

Sophia's  words  fairly  hissed  ;  her  angry  eyes  were 
fixed  defiantly  on  the  lawyer,  whom  already  she  de 
tested. 

"  Can  you  in  any  way  account  for  this  aversion  ?" 
he  said. 

"We  can't  always  account  for  the  way  we  feel 
towards  people,"  she  returned,  rendering  it,  by  a  glance, 
a  personal  tribute  to  her  interlocutor. 

"Was  he — presuming — overbearing — in  his  manner 
towards  you  ?" 


THE    COURT-KOOM.  245 

"  I  should  think  not ;  lie  wouldn't  have  tried  that 
twice,  yon  may  be  very  certain." 

"Was  he  ever  disrespectful  to  yonr  mistress?" 

"  Disrespectful !  In  one  sense,  no ;  in  another, 
yes." 

"  Explain  to  me  both  senses,  will  you  ?" 

"  He  wasn't  disrespectful  in  his  way  of  talking  to 
her ;  if  she  had  been  the  queen,  he  couldn't  have  been 
humbler.  lie  was  disrespectful  in  daring  to  speak  to 
her  at  all,  in  daring  to  come  near  her,  in  daring  to 
think  she  might  possibly  look  at  a  low  fellow  such 
as  he." 

"  Then  you  know  something  to  his  disadvantage  ? 
Something  about  his  birth  and  parentage  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  anything  about  them.  I  don't 
want  to  know.  I've  got  my  eyes  and  all  my  senses, 
and  that's  enough  for  me." 

"  But  we're  after  facts  just  now.  If  he  wasn't 
uncivil  to  you,  nor  disrespectful  in  his  way  of  talking 
to  your  mistress,  perhaps  he  was  unkind  and  irritable 
with  the  children,  and  that  turned  you  against  him  ?" 

"  No,  he  knew  too  much  for  that.  He  always  had 
them  after  him.  He  was  petting  them  enough  to  make 
you  sick." 

"  The  instincts  of  children  are  said  to  be  correct. 
How  did  the  children  act  towards  him?  Did  they 
show  any  of  the  aversion  that  one  might  be  led  to  look 
for?" 

"  No,  I  can't  say  they  did." 

"  Never  from  the  first  ?" 

"  No ;  little  things  like  them  couldn't  know  much 
about  the  real  character  of  people ;  they  liked  to  be 
petted ;  natural  enough  they  sliould." 


246  THE    COUKT-EOOM. 

"  Perhaps  lie  bribed  them  and  brought  them  toys 
and  sugar  plums  ?" 

"  I  never  saw  them,  if  he  did." 

"  Then  their  great  fondness  for  him  was  just  the  re 
sult  of  his  kind  and  affectionate  ways  with  them  ?" 

"  I  don't  say  what  it  was  the  result  of." 

There  was  a  wrangle  of  objections  several  times 
during  her  examination,  but  the  judge  did  not  sus 
tain  them,  and  Mr.  Hardinge,  with  a  look  of  sat 
isfaction,  glanced  down  again  at  his  memoranda,  and 
resumed. 

"  I  understood  you  to  say,  the  night  of  the  murder, 
you  were  sitting  in  the  dining-room  with  your  sewing, 
while  your  mistress  and  the  prisoner  were  in  the  parlor, 
talking.  What  led  you  to  go  out  on  the  balcony  at  the 
time  you  did  ?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to,  I  suppose ;  I  wasn't  bound  to 
sit  in  the  dining-room  all  night." 

"  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  sitting  or  walking  on  the 
balcony  in  the  evenings  ?" 

"  There's  no  reason  that  I  shouldn't  if  I  want  to." 

"  But  are  you  in  any  such  habit  3" 

"No,  I'm  not." 

"  Then  it's  clear  you  were  out  with  a  motive.  It 
was  too  dark  to  sew  there.  You  were  very  anxious  to 
get  through  a  piece  of  work,  you  said.  Why  did  you 
leave  it  and  go  out  ?" 

"  My  mistress  looked  frightened  when  she  came  to 
get  the  wine ;  I  wanted  to  see  if  anything  was  wrong." 

"  But  she.  hadn't  called  you  when  she  passed  you, 
had  she?" 

"No." 


THE    COURT -ROOM.  247 

"  Then  you  went  to  peep  in  at  the  parlor  window,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  There  wasn't  any  peeping  about  it,  I  looked  right 
in." 

"  And  when  you  looked  through  the  slats  of  the 
blind  door ;  was  that  peeping  or  did  you  look  right  in  ?" 

"  I  looked  in  ;  you  can  call  it  peeping  if  you  like  it 
better." 

Mr.  Hardinge  saw  that  he  had  made  a  point,  eaves 
dropping  not  being  popular  with  juries. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  if  you  please,  let  us  go  forward 
beyond  the  time  when  you  overheard  from  behind  the 
blind-door,  the  last  words  of  your  mistress  and  the 
prisoner,  to  the  time  when  you  were  shutting  up  the 
house.  In  your  testimony  just  now,  you  make  no  allu 
sion  to  the  doors  that  lead  down-stairs  from  the  rear  of 
the  house.  How  many  are  there  ?" 

"  In  front,  there  are  no  doors  ;  you  come  up  outside 
by  the  balcony  steps  on  to  the  balcony,  and  by  the 
front  door  into  the  little  entry.  At  the  back,  there  is 
only  one  way  of  getting  up  from  the  kitchen — that  is, 
by  the  kitchen-stairs,  into  the  open  chamber  between 
the  rooms." 

"  Do  you  know  whether  this  door  has  a  fastening  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  has  a  bolt." 

"  Do  you  keep  this  bolted  at  night  ?" 

"Yes,  always." 

"  Was  it  bolted  on  that  night  when  you  went  to 
bed  ?" 

"I  suppose,  of  course,  it  was;  but  I  can't  swear 
positively." 

"I'm  surprised,  you  have  remembered  everything 
else  with  such  distinctness;  you. are  a  very  excellent 


2-18  THE    COURTROOM. 

witness — not  one  in  a  thousand  like  you.  Can't  you 
remember  about  the  bolting  of  this  door  ?" 

"I  told  you  that  I  couldn't." 

"  Would  yon  have  felt  it  safe  to  leave  it  open  ?" 

"  I  always  wanted  it  fastened." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  so  careless  this  time  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  was  tired  and  sleepy ;  it  was  late.  I 
don't  know  whether  I  looked  at  it  or  not.  I  can't  re 
member  everything." 

"  Whose  duty  was  it  to  shut  it  3" 

"  It  was  Matilda's." 

Mr.  Ilardinge  looked  down  at  his  paper  again, 
shifted  his  position  a  little,  and  went  on. 

"  During  that  day,"  he  said,  "  a  number  of  persons 
were  at  the  house,  yon  mentioned.  Were  they  all  peo 
ple  that  you  knew  about — people  that  bear  a  good 
character  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  they  do.  I've  known  them  all 
summer.  It's  a  very  respectable,  quiet  neighborhood." 

u  There  wasn't  anybody  that  you  hadn't  seen  be 
fore,  and  that  wasn't  perfectly  respectable  ?" 

"  Nobody  but  the  man  that  came  in  and  asked  for  a 
drink  of  water,  and  then  for  something  to  eat." 

"  You  hadn't  seen  him  before  ?" 

"No." 

"  Describe  him  to  me." 

"  lie  wasn't  very  remarkable  looking.  I  didn't  pay 
much  attention  to  him.  lie  was  a  dirty  sort  of  fellow, 
sunburnt  and  shabby.  I  think  he  wasn't  very  tall ;  he 
was  thick-set." 

"  What  was  the  color  of  his  hair  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  remember.  His  hat  was  pushed  down 
over  his  head  a  good  deal ;  I  don't  think  I  saw  his  hair." 


THE    COURT-BOOM.  24:9 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  since  ?" 

"  I  haven't." 

"  Should  you  know  him  again  ?" 

"  I  think  I  should." 

"  Describe  what  he  did." 

"  I  was  pressing  out  some  collars  for  the  children, 
and  stood  with  my  back  to  the  door.  lie  knocked,  and 
when  I  didn't  answer,  he  came  on  into  the  kitchen.  He 
stopped  when  I  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  He  said,  a 
glass  of  water ;  he  spoke  thick,  like  a  German.  I  told 
him  to  go  to  the  pump,  there  was  a  cup  there.  When  he 
had  got  his  drink  he  came  back,  and  came  half  across  the 
kitchen  floor  before  I  noticed  him,  and  said  he  was  hun 
gry.  I  don't  like  foreigners,  and  I  was  going  to  send 
him  off,  when  Matilda,  who  was  in  the  buttery,  called 
out  there  was  some  pieces  that  she  was  going  to  throw 
away.  So  I  said  to  give  them  to  him.  I  told  him  to. 
take  the  pieces  outside  and  cat  them.  Then  I  went  up 
stairs  with  the  collars.  When  I  came  back  he  was  in 
the  kitchen  again,  sitting  by  the  stair  door ;  I  almost 
tumbled  over  him  when  I  opened  it.  I  told  him  to  go 
away,  and  he  got  up  and  went." 

"  He  had  been  in  the  kitchen  some  time  2" 

"  Ten  minutes,  maybe." 

"  Were  you  afraid  of  him  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  You  have  a  good  many  tramps,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  remember  another  one  all  summer." 

"  I  wonder  it  didn't  make  more  impression  on  you ; 
have  you  thought  about  it  since  the  murder  ?" 

"  Not  particularly." 

"  That  is  all,  I  believe,  that  I  shall  trouble  you  to 
tell  me  now."     He  sat  down. 
,  11* 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BEING    DULY   SWORN. 

% 

"  the  heart  hath  treble  wrong, 
When  it  is  barr'd  the  aidance  of  the  tongue." 

Venus  and  Adonis. 

"  I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know, 
From  light  and  life  and  love,  in  youth's  sweet  prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God  ; 
I  hope  I  *o  trust  in  Him.     In  whom  else 
Can  any  trust  ?     And  yet  my  heart  is  cold." 

/Shelley. 

THE  court  adjourned  for  an  hour  at  noon.  I  was 
taken  into  an  adjoining  room,  where  I  lay  down 
on  a  sort  of  hard  settee.  The  colonel  made  me  take  a 
biscuit  and  some  wine.  Sophia,  who  was  a  good  deal 
shaken  by  the  morning's  work,  went  out  into  the  air, 
and  walked  up  and  down,  and  tried  to  steady  herself. 
Mrs.  Emlyn,  with  all  her  superb  health,  was  sensitive 
and  excitable  in  a  high  degree.  She  could  not  bear  to 
leave  me,  and  yet  her  nerves  were  all  unstrung.  The 
air  of  the  court-room,  she  said,  was  all  the  trouble.  I 
begged  her  to  go  out  and  get  the  air  with  Sophia. 
The  colonel,  who  was  tender  as  a  woman,  stayed  and 
watched  over  me. 

"  What  is  coming  next  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"  The  doctor's  testimony." 

"  And  who  next  3" 
[250] 


BEING    DULY    SWOKN.  251 

"  You,  I  am  afraid." 

"  I  can't  be  there  through  the  examination  of  the 
doctor.  Can't  I  stay  here,  and  go  in  after,  when  I'm 
called  3" 

He  assured  me  that  I  might.     I  don't  know  how  it 
happened,  perhaps  it  was  exhaustion,  perhaps  a  gift . 
from  Heaven,  but  I  fell  asleep.     My  sleep  was  pro 
found  and  dreamless  ;  I  knew  nothing  till  I  found  some 
one  bending  over  me. 

"  I  am  afraid  you'll  have  to  wake  now,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  Your  name  will  soon  be  called." 

"When  we  went  into  the  court-room,  and  took  our 
places  again,  there  was  for  a  moment  the  same  hush 
that  I  had  noticed  in  the  morning  when  we  entered. 
The  doctor's  testimony  had  evidently  been  professional 
and  rather  tiresome  ;  the  people  had  been  yawning  and 
lolling.  They  looked  much  enlivened  when  we  came 
upon  the  scene.  They  sat  up,  and  leaned  forward  and 
gazed  intently.  The  doctor's  cross-examination  was 
just  ending.  He  was  held  for  a  moment  in  the  vice  of 
Mr.  Hardinge's  pertinacity.  The  doctor  would  not 
yield  the  point  that  a  longer  time  than  three  minutes 
was  necessary  for  the  extinction  of  life  under  the  cir 
cumstances  described.  He  continued  firm.  I  could 
see  there  had  been  a  strong  point  made  in  favor  of  the 
prosecution.  He  finally  was  permitted  to  leave  the 
stand,  and  my  name  was  called. 

I  did  not  feel  any  of  the  agitation  that  would  have 
seemed  inevitable.  I  certainly  knew  that  there  was  a 
great  deal  depending  upon  what  I  said ;  that  certainty 
seemed,  strangely,  a  sort  of  strength.  The  colonel  led 
me  along  the  narrow  space  between  the  judge's  platform 
and  the  table  at  which  the  lawyers  sat ;  he  seemed  to  fear 


252  BEING    DULY    SWOEN. 

I  might  fall  any  moment  to  the  floor ;  he  looked  back 
anxiously  at  me,  when  by  reason  of  the  narrowness  of 
space  he  had  to  go  in  front.  He  supported  me  as  I 
stepped  up  upon  the  raised  place  upon  which  was  the 
chair,  and  stood  beside  me,  a  little  at  the  back,  all  the 
while  that  I  was  kept  there. 

The  attorney  for  the  prosecution  rose.  When  I 
was  sworn  and  had  given  my  name  and  residence,  I  was 
told  to  look  at  the  prisoner  and  say  if  I  knew  him.  I 
turned  my  eyes  towards  the  seat  where  I  had  seen  him ; 
certainly  I  saw  nothing.  I  said  yes. 

"  Your  acquaintance  with  him  began  when  ?" 

"  About  the  twentieth  of  May,  I  should  think." 

"  Were  you  acquainted  with  the  family  in  which  he 
lived,  before  you  came  to  South  Berwick '?" 

"No." 

"  Had  yon  any  knowledge  of.  him,  or  of  his  family, 
before  you  met  nim  there  ?" 

"None." 

"Had  you  any  knowledge  of  the  Emlyn  family 
before  this  date  2" 

"  I  only  knew  that  there  was  such  a  family,  and 
that  I  had  hired  a  house  from  them." 

"  You  were  on  good  terms  with  them  all  after  you 
became  acquainted  2" 

"Yes." 

"  You  were  entirely  ignorant  of  the  antecedents  of 
the  prisoner?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  often  were  you  in  the  habit  of  seeing  him  2" 

"  Almost  daily,  through  the  Summer." 

"  Where  did  you  generally  see  him — at  your  own 
house  2" 


BEING    DULY    SWORN.  253 

"  At  my  own  house  very  often,  or  at  the  house  of 
Colonel  Emlyn." 

"  Were  his  visits  at  your  house  business  visits,  visits 
of  necessity  ?" 

"  No."' 

"  They  were  then  purely  friendly,  social  visits  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  would  ask,  if  you  encouraged  these  visits  ?" 

Mr.  Hardinge.  "  The  witness  must  state  what  was 
said  or  done." 

Mr.  Sell.     "  What  was  his  manner  towards  you  ?" 

"  Always  gentlemanly  and  considerate." 

"  Was  it  the  same  to  others  ?" 

"  Yes,  according  to  my  observation." 

"Was  his  manner  just  the  same  to  you  as  to  others 
whom  you  saw  him  meet  ?" 

"  No,  it  was  different." 

"  How  so  ?     Will  you  explain  ?" 

"  It  was  naturally  different  with  the  Emlyn  chil 
dren,  who  were  his  pupils ;  and  with  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Emlyn,  who  were  so  much  older ;  and  with  people 
whom  he  met  whom  he  scarcely  knew." 

"  But  you  felt  he  was  more  friendly  with  you  ?" 

("My  learned  brother  is  slaying  the  slain,"  cried 
Mr.  Hardinge.  "  The  testimony  of  the  wroman  Sophia 
is  enough.  We  know  he  was  her  suitor.") 

I  took  the  cue  from  this  interjected  sentence,  as  I 
was  meant  to,  and  said  : 

"Yes." 

"  Was  this  acceptable  to  you  ?" 

"  I  was  glad  to  have  him  for  my  friend." 

"  Was  his  manner  indicative  of  anything  more  than 
friendship  ?" 


254  BEING    DULY    SWORN. 

"  It  may  be." 

"  Did  you  make  any  objection  to  its  being  so  ?" 

"I  don't  remember." 

"  If  he  had  asked  yon  to  marry  him,  and  you  had 
been  free  of  other  ties,  such  as  the  care  of  your  chil 
dren,  would  you  have  married  him  ?" 

Mr.  llardinge  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Your  Honor, 
that  is  not  evidence.  It  is  bad  enough  to  endure  such 
baiting  of  a  suffering  woman,  when  it  is  kept  within 
strict  legal  bounds ;  but  I  deny  that  the  counsel  for  the 
prosecution  has  the  right  to  call  for  an  opinion  in  the 
nature  of  a  mental  operation." 

Mr.  Bell.  "  My  brother  told  us  this  morning  he 
was  not  retained  to  defend  the  lady." 

Mr.  Hardinge.  "  I  have  no  fee  in  my  pocket  to  de 
fend  her ;  but  I  have  a  feeling  in  my  heart — a  feeling 
such  as  every  man  has  in  his  heart,  when  he  sees  a  wo 
man,  whose  sufferings  should  make  her  sacred,  unneces 
sarily  put  upon  the  rack.  Your  Honor,  it  is  question 
able,  bringing  her  here  at  all.  But,  since  she  is  here,  let 
us  be  merciful  to  her.  Why,  your  Honor,  any  man  upon 
that  jury  may  think  for  himself  how  would  he  treat 
the  mother  of  his  little  child  that  had  died ;  died 
peacefully,  and  by  natural  causes,  in  her  arms,  when 
everything  had  been  done  to  save  it.  At  the  end  of 
four  short  weeks,  would  he  not  think  she  did  bravely, 
if  she  consented  to  see  a  few  dear  friends  that  came  to 
mourn  with  her ;  if  she  went  down-stairs,  and,  in  the 
seclusion  of  her  home,  went  again  about  her  ordinary 
duties  ?  And  if  he  persuaded  her  to  go  out  with  him 
once  more  into  the  sun  that  would  never  shine  again 
upon  her  baby,  would  he  not  take  her  into  green  and 
quiet  lanes,  or  drive  with  her  where  they  would  meet 


BEING    DULY     SWORN.  255 

fewest  people  ?  It  is  only  four  weeks — and  think  of 
this  young  mother,  after  her  unspeakable  bereavement, 
called  to  face  this  crowd  of  strangers!  The  law  de 
mands  no  such  sacrifice.  I  would  rather  let  ten  mur 
derers  go  free,  than  have  upon  my  conscience  the  in 
flicting  of  such  torture." 

Mr.  Bell.  "  Your  Honor,  I'll  make  a  bargain  with 
the  gentleman,  for  whose  tenderness  of  heart  I  was  not 
prepared.  If  he  will  waive  the  cross-examination  of 
this  witness,  I  will  stop  at  the  point  I  am  now,  and 
engage  not  to  recall  her." 

Mr.  Hardinge.     "  That  will  not  be  possible " 

Mr.  Bell  (interrupting).  "  Sir,  you  are  hoist  with 
your  own  petard.  My  question  did  not  please  you ; 
that  was  all  the  trouble.  I  appeal  to  your  Honor  to 
sustain  me,  and  let  the  examination  go  on." 

Mr.  Hardinge.  "  I  will  agree  to  confine  myself  to 
just  half  the  questions  you  have  asked  already,  if  you 
will  waive  the  direct  examination." 

Mr.  Bell.  "  I  will  agree  to  nothing  of  the  sort. 
Your  Honor,  am  I  at  liberty  to  insist  upon  the  answer 
to  my  question  ?" 

The  Judge.  "  I  must  sustain  the  objection  made 
by  the  defense.  The  witness  is  excused  from  answer 
ing  what  calls  simply  for  the  statement  of  what  existed 
in  her  mind.'' 

Mr.  Bell  (resuming).  "  Did  he  ever  ask  you  to 
marry  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — I  understood  that  he — desired  me 
to." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  you  would  marry  him,  ex 
cept  for  the  obstacle  presented  by  your  children  ?" 

«  No." 


2r/»3  BEIXG    DULY    SWORN. 

"  Did  he  say  to  you  that  he  knew  that  they  stood 
between  you?" 

"  Something  like  that." 

«  Did  you  deny  it  ?" 

"  I  didn't  deny  it,  or  affirm  it." 

"  Didn't  you  allow  the  impression  on  his  mind  that 
Buch  was  the  case  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  his  impression  was." 

"  Didn't  he  appear  to  continue  to  believe  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  he  didn't  refer  to  it  again." 

"  What  reason  did  you  give  for  not  accepting  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  remember  giving  any." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  you  didn't  like  him  ?" 

"No." 

"  Didn't  you  give  him  any  reason  ?" 

"  I  don't  remember  giving  any." 

"  Simply  that  you  would  not  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Had  you  known  all  summer  that  he  wanted  to 
marry  you  ?" 

Mr.  Hardinge  rescued  me  from  this ;  and  Mr. 
Bell,  not  well  pleased  with  his  progress,  turned  from 
this  part  of  his  programme. 

"  After  you  were  left  by  the  prisoner  on  the  night 
of  the  second  of  September,  did  you  stay  on  the  balcony 
till  the  hour  stated  by-vthe  witness,  Sophia  Atkinson  ?" 

"I  did." 

"  How  were  you  occupied  ?" 

"  I  was  doing  nothing." 

"  From  nine  to  nearly  half-past  twelve  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Where  were  you  when  you  heard  the  scream  given 
by  this  witness  if" 


BEING    DULY    SWORN.  257 

"  In  the  parlor." 

"  State  what  she  said  to  you  when  she  came  from 
the  nursery." 

"  She  said,  '  Come  and  see  your  lover's  work,'  or 
words  like  that." 

"Did  you  go?" 

"  She  caught  my  hand  and  took  me  with  her." 

I  was  growing  so  white  that  every  one  looked 
alarmed ;  Sophia  darted  from  her  seat,  and  held  the 
salts  up  to  me  ;  Colonel  Emlyn  gave  me  a  glass  of 
water,  with  which  the  zealous  deputy  had  been  armed 
since  I  went  upon  the  stand.  It  had  grown  warm  from 
being  so  long  poured  out,  and  made  me  feel  a  little 
sick. 

"  Not  to  harrow  your  feelings,"  said  the  prosecut 
ing  attorney,  a  little  conscience-stricken,  "  I  will  rest 
here,  simply  asking  you  if  the  witness  Sophia  Atkin 
son's  testimony  was  heard  by  you,  and  if  you  fully  cor 
roborate  it ;  I  mean,  as  concerns  the  condition  of  the 
room,  and  the  appearance  of  the  children  as  they  lay  ?" 

"  I  heard  what  she  said ;  it  was  all  correct." 

"  Very  well.  Then  I  have  nothing  further  to  ask." 
And  he  sat  down. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  judge,  or  who,  of 
fered  me  a  respite  fora  little  while,  till  I  should  be  able 
to  go  on :  I  felt  very  confused  and  ill  for  a  moment  or 
two,  but  the  opening  of  a  window,  and  perhaps  the 
salts,  made  me  feel  better.  I  said  earnestly : 

"  I  want  them  to  go  on  ;  I  am  able  to  answer." 

This  was  repeated  to  the  judge  by  Colonel  Emlyn,  and 
by  him  to  Mr.  Ilardirige,  who  left  his  place  and  came 
nearer  to  me.  I  think  he  wanted  to  get  where  I  could 
see  the  expression  of  his  eye.  He  probably  perceived 


258  BEING    DULY    SWORN. 

that,  by  reason  of  my  weakness,  I  could  scarcely  see  any 
distance,  from  me  ;  my  body  fell  so  far  behind  my  mind 
in  this  dire  strait.  This  gentleman  knew  his  opponent's 
witnesses  much  better  than  he  knew  them  himself.  Of 
course,  being  summoned  by  the  prosecution,  I  had  never 
had  an  interview  with  him.  I  felt  that  he  saw  every 
thing  in  my  mind.  I  was  never  so  entirely  under  the 
influence  of  any  one  before.  He  held  me  with  his  eye ; 
he  guided  me  almost  without  the  interpretation  of  words. 
Jugglery  and  mind-reading  will  never  seem  wonderful 
me  after  this. 

I  saw,  by  a  certain  tension  of  the  muscles  of  his 
mouth,  that  he  felt  the  moment  critical.  A  strength 
came  to  me  with  the  knowledge ;  my  illness  and  faint- 
ness  were  all  passed  away. 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  many  questions,"  he 
said,  deferentially  and  quietly.  "  I  would  first  ask  you 
to  make  clear  to  me  one  or  two  things  in  the  bearing  of 
the  prisoner.  Have  you  observed  him  to  be  a  high- 
tempered  man,  ready  to  take  offense,  easily  made  angry  ?" 

"  No,  it  seems  to  me  not." 

"Was  he  irritable  and  passionate  with  his  pupils 
and  with  little  children,  or  the  reverse?" 

"  The  reverse." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  under  the  influence  of 
great  disappointment,  acute  suifering  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  it  make  him  morose,  angry — what  we  would 


"No." 

"  Did  it  give  him  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  was 

desperate,  reckless ?" 

Before  he  had  finished  the  sentence,  he  saw  from 


BEING    DULY    8WOKN.  259 

my  eyes  he  was  going  wrong ;  he  adroitly  changed  it 
into  "  reckless  of  the  rights  of  others,  bent  upon  revenge 
or  success  in  his  own  way  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  he  seemed  so  to  me." 

"  Now,  I  must  ask  you  to  revert  to  the  evening  of 
the  second  of  September.  After  he  had  left  you,  you 
went  directly  to  the  balcony  F 

"  Yes." 

"  From  where  you  sat,  could  you  have  heard  any 
one  moving  about  in  the  house  ?" 

"  In  the  parlor  I  could.  I  doubt  whether  I  could 
have  heard  anything  in  the  rear  of  the  house." 

"  You  heard  nothing  then  from  within  the  house  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"  Nothing  from  without,  about  the  premises  ?" 

"  Yes,  once." 

"  Please  tell  me  about  it." 

"  It  was  not  long  after  I  heard  the  whistle  of  the 
train,  and  saw  the  lights  pass  out  of  sight,  I  heard  a 
slight  rustling  in  the  bushes  by  the  gate ;  then  in  a  mo 
ment  I  heard  the  latch  lifted  very  softly,  and  dropped 
again  as  if  some  one  were  trying  not  to  make  a  noise." 

"  That  was  all  ?" 

"  That  was  all." 

"  You  heard  no  steps,  no  voices,  nothing  ?" 

"  Nothing. 

"You  heard  nothing  further  all  the  evening?" 

"Nothing." 

"  Was  the  night  still  ?" 

"  Yery  still." 

"You  are  very  positive  about  this  noise?" 

"  Yery  positive.  It  startled  me.  I  got  up  and  went 
to  the  dining-room  window  to  see  if  Sophia  were  still 


260  BEING    DULY    SWOKN. 

there.  I  thought  she  might  have  gone  down  through 
the  kitchen  and  out  for  something.  I  knew  Matilda 
was  in  bed.  Sophia  was  sitting  by  the  lamp,  sewing. 
I  saw  she  had  not  heard  it,  for  she  had  not  even  looked 
up.  Then  I  went  and  sat  down  again  by  the  railing, 
but  I  heard  nothing  more." 

"  This  was  about  what  hour  2" 

"  The  train  should  have  gone  at  nine  fifteen.  It 
was  ten  minutes  late.  I  heard  the  sounds  at  the  gate,  I 
should  say,  about  ten  minutes  after  that.  I  cannot  be 
positive,  of  course,  but  it  was  not  long  after." 

The  relief  and  satisfaction  in  Mr.  Hardinge's  eyes,  I 
hope  was  not  apparent  to  any  one  but  me. 

"  At  what  hour  did  you  go  into  the  parlor  2" 

"  It  was  after  twelve." 

"  Tell  me  something  about  the  occurrences  of  the 
next  half  hour,  if  you  are  able :  I  mean,  prior  to  your 
going  to  the  nursery  with  Sophia." 

"  I  sat  still,  and  heard  Sophia  go  about  and  shut  the 
doors  and  windows.  The  lamp  had  gone  out  and  I  was 
sitting  in  the  darkness.  Sophia  came  info  the  room 
several  times ;  I  knew  she  wanted  me  to  go  to  bed.  I 
heard  her  go  up-stairs  to  Matilda's  room.  She  came 
down  and  shut  the  window  in  the  open  chamber  be 
tween  the  rooms.  Then  I  heard  her  go  to  the  door  of 
the  kitchen  stairs.  She  found  it  unbolted,  and  made 
an  angry  exclamation,  something  about  Matilda.  She 
slid  the  bolt  as  if  she  were  vexed." 

"  You  remember  this  distinctly  2" 

"  As  clearly  as  possible." 

"  This  door  shuts  off  all  communication  with  the 
lower  part  of  the  house  2" 

"  Yes." 


BEING    DULY    SWORN.  261 

" Then  it  had  been  open  all  the  evening?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  The  Indian  woman  must  have  left 
it  unfastened  when  she  came  up-stairs :  neither  Sophia 
nor  I  had  been  in  that  part  of  the  house  since  she  went 
up  to  bed." 

"  Did  you  say  anything  when  Sophia  made  this 
exclamation  ?" 

"  No,  she  did  not  address  herself  to  me ;  it  was 
simply  an  exclamation  of  annoyance  at  Matilda." 

"  You  were  quite  wide  awake  at  this  time  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  that  was  the  reason  I  did  not  want  to  go 
to  bed.  I  knew  I  could  not  get  asleep." 

"After,  when  Sophia  appeared  in  the  door-way,  and 
gave  you  the  alarm,  will  you  try  and  remember  exactly 
the  expression  that  she  used  ?" 

"  She  said,  '  Come  and  see  your  lover's  work.'  She 
said  it  over  and  over  wildly.  I  could  not  forget  it ;  it 
was  always  in  my  mind  for  many  days." 

"  Did  her  statement  have  any  influence  upon  you  ?" 

Objected  to. 

"  Did  she  repeat  it  to  others  at  that  time  ?" 

"  In  the  course  of  that  night  and  during  the  follow 
ing  day,  I  heard  her  say  things  to  the  same  effect  be 
fore  other  people." 

"  She  then  showed  a  strong  prejudice  against  the 
prisoner  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  long  had  she  expressed  aversion  to  him  ?" 

"  From  the  time  that  he  began  to  come  to  the  house 
as  a  frequent  visitor." 

"  Had  she  ever  expressed  open  enmity  to  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Mention  some  instance." 


262  BEING    DULY    SWORN. 

"  The  day  before  she  told  me  she  should  leave  the 
house  if  he  came  into  it  again." 

"  Had  he  ever  given  her  a  cause  for  feeling  so?" 

"  Not  intentionally,  I  think." 

"  Had  he  ever  said  anything  to  indicate  enmity  to 
her?" 

"  I  never  heard  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  Those  are  all  the  questions  I  shall  have  to  ask  you 
now,"  he  said,  bowing,  and  returning  to  his  place. 


CHAPTEK  XX. 

FOB  AND  AGAINST. 

"  When  thou  fearest, 
God  is  nearest." 

next  morning  the  attorney  for  the  prosecution 
called  first  Colonel  Eralyn,  and  then  his  wife.  The 
design  was  evidently  to  obtain  from  them  proof  of  the 
utter  ignorance  they  were  in  concerning  the  antecedents 
of  the  prisoner.  He  also  drew  out  from  Colonel  Emlyn 
that  he  was  not  on  good  terms  with  the  prisoner  when 
they  parted,  but  no  question  was  asked  which  would 
permit  the  witness  to  explain  the  cause  of  the  estrange 
ment.  He  also  obtained  from  him  that  the  prisoner 
was  a  man  of  resolution,  force ;  that  he  carried  out  his 
purposes ;  that  he  maintained  authority  in  the  school 
room.  The  direct  examination  was  short ;  the  cross- 
examination  established  the  good  character  of  the  pris 
oner,  his  uniformly  irreproachable  conduct  during  the 
ten  months  he  had  been  in  their  house  ;  his  gentle 
ness,  his  courtesy,  his  rather  unusual  aversion  to  giving 
pain,  his  forbearance  with  the  faults  of  children.  Mrs. 
Emlyn  vehemently  threw  in  several  inadmissible  state 
ments,  which  were  not  accepted  as  evidence,  but  which 
may  have  had  their  effect  upon  the  jury.  Colonel  Emlyn 
was  told  to  state  the  cause  of  the  coolness  which  existed 
between  the  prisoner  and  himself  at  the  time  of  his 

[2631 


264:  FOB    AND    AGAINST. 

leaving  the  house.  He  answered,  it  was  because  lie  did 
not  want  to  part  with  him ;  he  considered  his  going  a 
serious  loss  to  the  children ;  he  desired  to  retain  him 
for  at  least  two  years  longer  in  his  family.  He  was 
asked  to  state  the  reason  given  by  the  prisoner  for  his 
abrupt  departure.  He  had  given  no  reason.  The  wit 
ness  had  his  theory  for  it,  but  was  not  allowed  to  state  it. 
The  next  witness  called  was  the  post-master  of  the 
village.  He  testiiied  to  an  interview  with  the  prisoner 
early  in  June,  in  which  the  prisoner  had  given  him  a 
slip  of  paper,  containing  a  name  which  he  had  forgot 
ten,  saying  to  him,  that  if  any  letters  came  to  that  ad 
dress,  he  would  oblige  him  by  laying  them  aside,  and 
giving  them  to  him  personally.  He  had  received  the 
impression  that  the  prisoner  had  meant  him  to  be 
silent  about  it,  though  he  could  not  recall  anything  that 
he  had  said  to  that  effect.  He  had  treated  the  matter 
confidentially,  and  had  not  spoken  of  it  till  he  heard 
about  the  murder.  Two  or  three  letters  had  come  to 
the  address  given  him ;  he  had  put  them  aside  and 
handed  them  personally  to  the  prisoner.  That  was  in 
the  early  part  of  the  summer.  Since  then,  no  letters 
had  come  to  that  address.  The  prisoner's  letters  latterly 
had  come  two  or  three  in  one  envelope,  with  double 
postage,  as  if  inclosed  and  forwarded  to  him  from  some 
point.  They  were  invariably  addressed  Bernard  Mac- 
nally,  and,  as  far  as  he  could  recollect,  were  in  one 
handwriting.  He  was  unable  to  recall  the  name  on  the 
slip  of  paper  the  prisoner  had  handed  him  ;  the  paper 
had  been  mislaid ;  he  had  searched  in  vain  for  it.  He 
should  know  the  name  if  he  heard  it.  It  was  a  long 
name  ;  there  were  several  initials.  As  the  letters  had 
ceased  to  come,  he  had  not  minded  anything  about  it ; 


FOR    AND     AGAIXST.  2G5 

lie  had  a  poor  memory  for  names.  The  letters  that  had 
come  to  the  address  given  him  had  been  foreign  letters, 
from  somewhere  in  Great  Britain.  He  could  not  be 
sure  of  anything  else.  He  had  noticed  at  the  time,  but 
had  forgotten. 

The  cross-examination  was  short  and  unimportant. 
Though  the  post-master  hadn't  a  strong  memory  for 
names,  he  was  not  weak  in  other  things,  and  Mr.  Har- 
dinge  could  not  get  anything  out  of  him  but  what  he 
chose  to  say.  He  admitted  that  the  occurrence  was  not 
without  precedent.  That  he  had  on  more  than  one 
occasion  had  the  same  favor  asked  him  by  perfectly  re 
spectable  young  men,  but  that  he  had  known  that  it  was 
just  some  "lark,"  and  that  there  wasn't  any  deception 
meant  that  would  do  anybody  any  harm. 

Then  Sophia  Atkinson  was  recalled,  and  was  shown 
a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  asked  if  she  had  ever  seen 
it  before.  She  testified  that  she  had,  that  she  had  seen 
it  on  her  mistress'  throat,  and  afterwards  found  it  on 
the  dressing-table  in  her  mistress'  room ;  that  she  knew 
it  to  be  the  property  of  the  prisoner,  from  her  mistress 
mentioning  it  as  sucli,  and  making  searcli  for  it.  It  was 
not  at  all  like  any  handkerchief  that  any  one  in  the 
house  owned.  She  could  read  the  initials  worked  on 
it,  but  she  didn't  know  how  they  went  in  order.  The 
letters  were  L.  M.  C.  B.  or  M.  C.  B.  L.,  or  any  way 
you  chose  to  put  them. 

Mr.  Hardinge  made  it  appear,  on  the  cross-examina 
tion,  that  she  had  purloined  the  handkerchief,  and  kept 
it  concealed,  notwithstanding  the  many  inquiries  that 
had  been  made  for  it. 

Penelope  Emlyn,  recalled,  was  shown  a  book,  and 
asked  to  identify  it.  She  recognized  it  as  a  book  which 
12 


206  FOE    AND    AGAINST. 

she  had  seen  in  the  prisoner's  possession.  It  had  been 
brought  to  her  by  one  of  the  children,  to  establish  the 
fact  that  that  day  was  the  tutor's  birthday,  and  to  ask 
a  holiday.  The  prisoner  had  not  denied  that  it  was  his 
book,  nor  that  the  day  was  his  birthday.  The  words 
written  on  the  fly-leaf  were  :  "  To  L ,  on  his  four 
teenth  birthday,  with  his  mother's  always  faithful 
love,"  and  the  date  below.  The  volume  was  a  worn 
and  shabby  copy  of  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer. 
She  was  asked  to  identify  another  book,  a  copy  of  the 
Tragedies  of  Euripides,  from  which  a  portion  of  the 
fly-leaf  was  cut  out.  This  book  had  been  lent  her  by 
the  prisoner,  as  well  as  many  others.  Several  of  them 
had  no  name  at  all  written  in  them.  In  many,  there 
was  a  mutilation  of  the  fly-leaf,  as  in  this.  She--  was 
not  cross-examined. 

The  Indian  cook,  Matilda,  was  next  summoned. 
She  was  much  agitated,  and  gave  a  confused  account  of 
the  incidents  of  the  night.  On  the  direct  examination, 
she  testified  to  having  closely  attended  to  shutting  up 
the  kitchen,  and  bolting  the  door  of  the  kitchen  stairs 
when  she  went  up  to  bed.  She  described  my  coming 
to  her  and  rousing  her,  and  sending  her  out  to  call  the 
neighbors.  Her  account  of  the  finding  of  the  children's 
bodies  was  unimportant  and  confused. 

On  the  cross-examination  she  admitted  that  she  was 
dreadfully  tired  and  sleepy;  that  she  had  actually 
dropped  asleep  sitting  by  the  fire  ;  that  the  striking  of 
the  clock  roused  her,  and  she  started  np,  and  took  the 
candle  and  went  away  up-stairs,  hardly  knowing  what 
she  did,  for  fear  of  being  scolded  by  Sophia,  who  had 
told  her  she  must  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  she  had  done  her 
work.  She  admitted  she  was  afraid  of  Sophia,  who 


FOR    AND    AGAINST.  267 

scolded  her  "  considerable."  She  couldn't  say  whether 
she  fastened  the  outside  kitchen  door  or  not ;  whether 
she  bolted  the  stair  door  after  her  or  not ;  she  was  just 
dead  sleepy ;  she  hadn't  rlept  hardly  any  the  night  be 
fore  ;  she  dropped  asleep  almost  before  she  got  undressed 
when  she  got  up-stairs ;  when  her  mistress  woke  her, 
she  still  had  half  her  clothes  on ;  she  knew  what  an 
oath  was  ;  she  had  been  converted  ;  she  went  to  meet 
ing  regularly  ;  nothing  would  tempt  her  to  tell  a  lie  if 
she  knew  what  she  was  doing.  That  was  the  reason 
that  she  wouldn't  swear  (again)  that  she  had  fastened 
up  the  doors,  because  she  couldn't  tell  for  sure. 

Here  the  prosecution  rested  their  case  and  Mr.  Har- 
dinge  opened  his. 

His  first  witness  was  the  baggage-master  at  the  South 
Berwick  station.  He  testified  to  the  checking  of  the 
baggage  by  young  Emlyn,  and  to  the  arrival  of  the 
prisoner,  who  reached  the  station  at  sixteen  minutes 
after  nine.  He  said  to  the  prisoner,  "  You'd  have  been 
left,  if  the  train  had  been  on  time."  The  prisoner  had 
answered,  "  No,  I  shouldn't,  I  was  listening  for  the  whis 
tle  all  the  time.  I  should  have  hurried  ;  if  it  had  blown 
while  I  was  half  a  mile  off,  I  could  have  caught  it." 
The  train  was  late  ten  minutes.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  platform,  talking  with  young  Emlyn,  some 
times  stopping  and  talking  with  him  and  with  some 
other  men  who  were  standing  about.  He  was  grave, 
and  didn't  seem  in  his  usual  spirits,  but  he  was  bound 
to  say,  he  didn't  seem  "  flustered,"  or  like  a  man  who  had 
just  been  committing  a  crime,  and  was  getting  out  of 
reach  of  justice  as  fast  as  he  knew  how. 

The  witness  was  right  in  saying  "  he  was  bound  to 
testify  thus,  and  so."  He  was  bound  by  his  sturdy, 


2G8  FOR    AND    AGAINST. 

pober-minded,  American  conscience,  and  not  by  any 
predilection  for  the  prisoner.  In  fact,  the  defence  had 
this  great  disadvantage  all  the  way  through.  The  pre 
judice  against  Macnally  was  bitter.  South  Berwick 
was  in  a  part  of  the  country  where  few  Irish  had 
settled,  and  those  of  the  lowest  class.  There  was  a 
jealousy  of  intrusion  that  is  only  seen  in  such  isolated 
neighborhoods.  The  population  was  almost  without 
exception  native;  they  were  thrifty  and  intelligent,  and 
looked  with  scant  favor  upon  the  coming  of  strangers, 
even  of  their  own  nationality.  Colonel  Emlyn  had 
overcome  this  feeling  by  his  unassuming  ways,  liberality 
and  common  sense,  and  was  at  the  end  of  four  or  five 
years  looked  upon  as  a  worthy  and  important  member 
of  their  small  community.  But  Macnally  had  never 
been  a  favorite — they  didn't  know  how  to  take  him. 
They  weren't  used  to  jokes,  being  stolid  and  shy.  His 
merriment  seemed  to  them  a  disrespect.  They  were 
jealous  of  an  Irishman  who  dared  to  walk  as  he  pleased 
over  their  sacred  soil.  Sophia's  bitter  tongue  had  not 
been  idle.  No  trifling  pleasantry  of  his  about  the 
rural  population  was  allowed  to  rest  with  one  telling. 
The  stories  circulated,  and  the  prejudices  roused  were 
numberless.  It  was  from  a  community  so  affected  that 
Mr.  Ilardinge  had  to  recruit  his  witnesses.  They 
seemed  like  "  Spanish  volunteers,"  led  along  in  chains. 
I  began  to  see  that  he  would  have  to  spin  much  of  his 
web  of  evidence  out  of  his  own  clever  brain. 

The  next  witness  was  the  conductor,  who  knew  the 
prisoner  quite  well  by  sight;  thought  he  might  have 
spoken  to  him  sometimes  at  the  station  as  his  train 
passed  through.  He  had  all  summer  known  his  name  ; 
known  he  was  the  tutor  living  at  Colonel  Emlyn's.  He 


FOK    AND    AGAINST.  269 

noticed  nothing  special  in  his  manner  on  the  night  of 
the  second  of  September ;  except  that  he  didn't  go  to 
sleep  as  the  other  passengers  had  done.  The  train  was 
an  hour  and  forty  minutes  late,  owing  to  a  freight  train 
running  off  the  track.  He  had  been  awake  whenever 
he  came  to  him  to  punch  his  ticket ;  he  remembered 
particularly  the  last  time  when  he  came  through  the 
car ;  the  prisoner  had  his  ticket  in  his  teeth ;  a  little 
piece  was  gnawed  off.  of  it. 

"  When  I  .looked  at  it  he  laughed  and  said,  '  Your 
train  goes  so  confounded  slow,  we  shall  have  to  make 
our  breakfast  off  our  tickets.'  He  didn't  seem  in  a 
hurry,  no :  he  looked  to  me  like  a  man  who  was  in 
trouble  more  than  like  a  man  who  was  afraid.  He 
was  wide  awake  and  knew  wrhat  he  was  about  though ; 
he  was  in  the  train  the  last  station  that  we  passed  be 
fore  we  entered  the  city.  I  took  his  ticket  then,  and 
that's  the  last  I've  seen  of  him  till  I  saw  him  here  in 
court." 

The  cross-examination  did  not  make  much  of  him. 
He  admitted  there  was  something  about  the  prisoner 
that  made  him  notice  him,  but  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
noticing  the  faces  of  his  passengers.  lie  didn't  look 
like  a  man  that  was  running  away ;  he  was  bound  to 
say  that  wasn't  the  impression  that  he  made  on  him. 
He  couldn't  say  exactly  how  a  man  that  was  running 
away  would  look  :  he  should  think  he  might  look  hurried 
and  restless.  This  one  didn't  look  that  way.:  he  wasn't 
looking  behind  him,  and  opening  and  shutting  windows, 
and  watching  who  got  in  at  every  station.  He  looked 
tired  and  used  up,  and  yet  as  if  his  mind  was  too  full 
of  some  trouble  to  let  him  go  to  sleep. 

The  next  upon  the  stand  was  the  telegraph  messen- 


270  FOR    AND    AGAINST. 

ger  who  handed  the  prisoner  a  dispatch  from  Colonel 
Emlyn,  as  he  stepped  out  of  the  car  at  the  depot.  lie 
testified  to  the  consternation  and  agitation  of  the  pris 
oner  when  he  read  the  message.  lie  staggered,  and  the 
witness  thought  he  would  have  fallen  if  he  had  not  put 
out  his  hand,  and  helped  him  to  a  seat.  lie  seemed 
dazed,  astounded.  lie  took  the  paper  and  tried  to  read 
it  for  the  second  time,  but  seemed  to  be  very  faint  and 
ill ;  then  he  handed  it  to  the  messenger  and  said — "  Read 
it  to  me — I  must  have  made  some  mistake — read  it 
slowly — I  want  to  understand."  The  witness  read  it  to 
him — it  was  as  follows : 

"  The  two  children  at  the  cottage  found  murdered 
in  their  beds  an  hour  ago.  Come  instantly  back.  Take 
my  advice — come  back  voluntarily ;  it  will  be  in  your 
favor,  if  }rou  do. — Edward  Emlyn." 

The  witness  described  his  pallor  and  consternation, 
his  sending  him  to  the  ticket-office  to  see  what  was  the 
earliest  train  back,  his  anxiety  to  know  at  what  hour 
exactly  the  dispatch  was  dated. 

The  cross-examiner  asked  how  he  dared  to  go  to  the 
ticket-office  and  leave  him,  seeing,  by  the  despatch, 
that  he  was  a  suspected  person. 

"  I  kept  my  eye  on  him,''  said  the  astute  messenger, 
determined  not  to  have  his  shrewdness  doubted. 

The  attorney  for  the  prosecution  wished,  sarcasti 
cally,  that  all  the  witnesses  for  the  defence  might  be  as 
strongly  persuaded  of  the  prisoner's  innocence,  and  dis 
missed  him. 

The  officer  who  arrested  him  was  the  next  brought 
forward,  lie  had  received  the  dispatch,  at  the  Cen 
tral  Office,  just  twenty  minutes  before  the  arrival  of 
the  train.  He  had  made  all  possible  haste  to  get  to  the- 


FOB    AND    AGAINST.  271 

depot,  aTid  liad  entered  it  just  as  the  passengers  were 
coming,  in  a  body,  through  the  gateway,  from  the  cars. 
If  the  train  had  been  on  time,  there  would  have  been  no 
hope.  He  spotted  his  man  in  an  instant,  from  the  de 
scription  he  had  had.  He  saw  the  messenger  go  up  to 
him  with  the  dispatch,  and  knew  somebody  had  got 
before  him,  and  had  given  him  warning.  So  he  came 
close,  and  stood  ready  to  prevent  escape,  if  he  at 
tempted  it.  But  he  corroborated  the.  former  witness's 
account  of  his  amazed  and  overwhelmed  condition,  and 
the  lack  of  evidence  to  show  any  inclination  to  escape. 

On  cross-examination,  he  said  he  must  acknowledge 
he  had  arrested  prisoners  who  were  just  as  innocent 
appearing,  and  who  had  turned  out  the  worst  sort  of 
scamps.  He  could  believe  anything  of  prisoners, 
pretty  much,  he  said ;  classing  them,  evidently,  in  his 
mind,  in  not  the  most  discriminating  way. 

After  awhile  the  prisoner  had  got  over  his  shock, 
and  had  seemed  to  take  in  the  situation  and  to  rouse 
himself  ;  and  he  had  never  seen  him  give  way  since 
then,  much  as  he  had  seen  of  him. 

Yes,  he  acknowledged  on  the  cross-examination  that 
lie  was  of  Irish  parentage  ;  he  wasn't  ashamed  of  it  either ; 
he  didn't  care  what  the  prisoner  was,  he  was  a  perfect 
gentleman. 

"  Don't  you  think  all  Irishmen  are  perfect  gentle 
men  ?"  said  the  prosecuting  lawyer.  Which  wasn't  evi 
dence,  but  which  was  effective. 

After  he  left  the  stand,  I  was  recalled.  I  wasn't 
expecting  it  at  the  moment,  and  was  a  little  agitated, 
but  soon  recovered  my  composure.  Mr.  Hardinge  again 
came  near  the  stand  and  spoke  in  a  lower  voice  than 
when  he  questioned  the  others.  He  said : 


272  FOR    AND    AGAINST. 

"  T  made  it  a  point  to  ask  you  as  little  as  possible 
about  the  details  of  your  going  in  the  nursery  that  night, 
after  Sophia  gave  you  the  alarm.  I  now  find  myself 
obliged  to  ask  yon,  did  you  find  anything  deranged 
about  the  room,  excepting,  of  course,  the  condition  of 
the  cribs  ?" 

u  I  do  not  remember  anything  displaced  ;  it  may- 
have  been  so,  easily,  and  I  not  have  seen  it,  in  the  state 
of  mind  in  which  I  was." 

"  Did  you  find  anything  out  of  order  in  any  other 
room  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  if  you  please." 

"  Sophia  dropped  the  light  as  she  fell ;  I  had  to 
grope  about  to  find  the  matches.  I  went  across  to  my 
own  room,  and  stumbled  over  something  lying  near  the 
door.  "When  I  got  the  matches  and  struck  one,  I  found 
it  was  a  footstool  that  generally  stood  beside  my  closet 
door.  It  was  dragged  out  from  its  place  and  lay  over 
turned  near  the  entrance  to  the  room.  The  first 
thought  that  I  had,  was  that  some  one  had  been 
robbing  the  closet,  but  I  did  not  think  of  it  a  sec 
ond  time.  I  don't  know  whether  anything  was  out  of 
order  in  that  closet ;  every  thought  was  for  the  other 
room." 

"  Was  anything  missing  from  any  other  room  upon 
that  floor?" 

"  There  was  something  missing  from  the  nursery. 
It  was  not  anything  of  any  value  to — to  any  one  out 
side." 

"  Describe  it,  if  you  please  ?" 

"It  was  a  toy — belonging  to  the  youngest  child — 
and  one  of  her  little  shoes  cannot  be  found." 


FOE    AND    AGAINST.  273 

"  Where  was  the  toy  kept,  and  what  was  it  ?" 

"  It  was  broken ;  a  little  toy  lamb — with  a  bell 
around  its  neck — the  Baby  would  never  go  to  sleep 
unless  she  had  it  in  her  arms — it  was  in  her  arms  that 
evening,  when — when — I  saw  her  last  alive." 

"  You — "  began  the  lawyer. 

"  I  cannot  talk  about  it — let  me  go,"  I  exclaimed, 
getting  up  and  making  a  step  forward,  overcome  by  an 
anguish  that  was  uncontrollable. 

Sophia  darted  forward  to  my  help. 

"  Let  me  go — let  me  go  out,"  I  said,  "  I  cannot  bear 
it  any  longer." 

The  lawyer  pushed  between  her  and  me,  and  helped 
me  down  the  step  from  the  witness-stand,  and  sup 
ported  me  through  the  clerks  and  lawyers,  past  the 
prisoner,  out  into  an  ante-room.  As  he  went  he  man 
aged  to  whisper  a  few  words  in  my  ear,  the  only  ones 
that  I  ever  had  the  chance  of  having  with  him  through 
the  whole  trial. 

I  lay  down  on  the  hard  settee  in  the  ante- room.  I 
would  not  go  away ;  but  lay  and  listened  to  the  prog 
ress  of  the  case,  which  I  could  hear  with  tolerable  dis 
tinctness.  The  defence  had,  one  after  another,  three 
South  Berwick  men  on  the  stand.  They  testified, 
with  very  fair  unanimity,  to  the  seeing  at  various  times 
during  daylight  of  September  second,  a  man  unknown 
to  the  neighborhood,  corresponding  to  the  description  of 
m  the  tramp  who  ate  his  bread  and  butter  outside  the 
kitchen  door  of  the  cottage,  in  the  morning.  The  last 
time  he  was  seen  was  just  before  twilight,  by  a  fisher 
man ,  who  was  coming  up  from  one  of  the  fish-houses 
on  the  beach,  below  the  Old  Town  Pond.  The  witness 
had  been  there  to  stow  away  a  seine  he  had  been 
12* 


274  FOR    AND     AGAINST. 

mending ;  lie  was  coming  up  the  road  when  he  noticed 
the  man  striking  off  towards  the  lane  that  debouches 
in  the  farm-yard  of  the  cottage.  lie  noticed  him  par 
ticularly  ;  he  thought  he  was  a  rough-looking  chap ;  he 
wondered  where  he  came  from.  He  didn't  speak  of  it 
to  any  one  ;  it  passed  out  of  his  mind.  He  didn't  con 
nect  it  with  the  murder,  even  when  he  heard  of  it  next 
day. 

"Why?" 

Well,  he  supposed  it  was  because  he  heard  right 
off  who  it  was  that  was  arrested.  There  didn't  seem 
to  be  any  doubt  about  who  did  it.  He  didn't  recall 
the  tramp  to  his  mind  till  a  good  deal  later ;  tramps 
weren't  such  an  unusual  sight — he  wished  they  were. 
They  didn't  often  get  as  far  down  the  Island  as  South 
Berwick,  but  they  weren't  a  rarity  enough  to  keep  a 
man  awake  at  night  if  he  had  seen  one  through  the 
day.  It  wasn't  strange  he  hadn't  thought  of  it ;  in  his 
opinion  it  wouldn't  have  made  much  difference  if  he 
hadn't  ever  thought  of  it.  He  was  informed  that  his 
opinion  wasn't  demanded  by  the  court.  He  was  an 
aggressive  witness;  it  wasn't  difficult  to  get  him  to 
admit  that  he'd  hang  every  Irishman  in  Sutphen 
county  if  he  had  a  fair  excuse.  For  all  that,  he  wasn't 
to  be  shaken  about  the  tramp ;  "  he  was  bound  to  say," 
the  tramp  was  going  through  the  lane  towards  the  cot 
tage  just  before  twilight,  on  the  second  of  September. 
There  was  a  good  deal  more,  but  this  was  the  substance 
of  it  in  the  main.  And  here  the  case  for  the  defence 
was  rested. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

COUNSEL  FOE  THE  DEFENCE. 

"For  one  minute  he  turned  his  eye  round  on  the  throng, 
An'  he  looked  at  the  bars,  so  firm  and  so  strong, 
An'  he  saw  that  he  had  not  a  hope  nor  a  friend, 
A  chance  to  escape,  nor  a  word  to  defend ; 
An'  he  folded  his  arms  as  he  stood  there  alone, 
As  calm  and  as  cold  as  a  statue  of  stone. " 

Samuel  Lover. 

WE  were  late  the  next  morning  in  getting  away 
from  the  hotel.  Mr.  Hardinge  had  already  be 
gun  his  smnrning-up,  when  we  came  into  the  court 
room.  There  were  more  people  there  than  ever :  not 
an  inch  of  standing  room  was  vacant ;  men  were  sitting 
even  on  the  ledges  of  the  windows,  but  the  utmost 
silence  reigned,  and  the  most  perfect  order.  Outside 
it  was  a  matchless  October  day  ;  through  the  windows, 
none  too  clear,  came  in  the  cheerful  sunshine.  The  air 
inside  was  as  yet  comparatively  good.  The  windows 
were  open  from  the  top,  and  the  outer  door  was  but 
half  shut.  Macnally  lifted  his  eyes  at  the  stir  of  our 
entrance  from  the  ante-room,  but  they  fell  again,  and 
he  did  not  look  at  us.  From  where  he  sat  to  where  I 
did  was  not  twelve  feet ;  yet  I  had  never  met  his  eye. 
Generally  some  one  was  between  us ;  but  to-day  we  were 
almost  face  to  face,  except  that,  as  he  sat,  his  profile  was 
always  turned  towards  us ;  he  faced  a  little  towards  the 
witness-stand  and  towards  the  jury.  Mr.  Hardinge  was 
speaking,  standing  just  beside  him.  His  eyes  were  on 

[275]' 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE. 

the  ground,  but  his  face  expressed  intent  attention. 
He  was  pale  as  the  dead,  but  his  still  face  and  fixed  at 
titude  expressed  the  intensest  mental  force  and  life,  I 
don't  know  how. 

The  first  of  Mr.  Hardinge's  speech,  as  I  have  said, 
was  lost  to  us ;  when  I  began  to  listen,  he  was  saying 
this: 

"  The  importance  of  this  case  I  cannot  over-state. 
To  you  men  of  Sutphen  county,  it  is  the  gravest  duty 
that  ever  came  before  you.  The  records  tell  us  that  it 
is  a  hundred  years  since  the  death  penalty  has  been  en 
forced  in  this  peaceful,  law-abiding  place.  A  century 
of  peace !  the  heavens  have  smiled  upon  you.  Do  not 
rashly  break  the  spell.  I  know  I  need  not  ask  you  to 
deliberate,  to  weigh  each  word,  to  sift  each  argument. 
I  am  speaking  to  men  who  are  used  to  deliberation  and 
to  thought ;  the  tenor  of  your  lives  has  taught  it  to  you, 
the  very  blood  in  your  veins  dictates  it  to  you.  I  have 
faced  many  juries  in  my  day :  if  I  had  a  weak  cause  I 
should  say,  give  me  anything  but  a  jury  of  sturdy,  so 
ber-minded  American  farmers.  To-day  I  say,  thank 
Heaven  I  have  a  jury  of  sturdy,  sober-minded  Ameri 
can  fanners,  men  who  can't  be  bent  by  prejudice  to  say 
that  right  is  wrong,  even  if  the  right  isn't  what  they 
like ;  men  who  can  throw  down  the  gauntlet  to  the  world 
and  say,  we  abide  by  the  written  law  and  by  the  spoken 
truth. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  stand  before  you  to-day 
to  plead  for  one  who  is  separated  from  you  in  many 
ways.  He  is  an  alien  by  birth ;  he  is  of  a  nation  you 
do  not  hold  in  favor.  The  bulk  of  his  fellow-country 
men  established  in  America  are  your  political  opponents. 
Ilis  education  has  been  different ;  his  way  of  life  has  been 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE.         277 

different ;  Iris  religious  creed  is  different.  "What  shall 
I  say  ?  Has  not  God  made  of  one  blood  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth?  Is  he  not  a  man  for  a'  that  ?  Will  you 
let  him  suffer  at  your  hands  because  he  isn't  of  your 
blood  ?  '  The  stranger  that  dwelleth  with  you  shall  be  unto 
you  as  one  born  among  you ;  '*  *  for  ye  were  strangers 
in  the  land  of  Egypt.'  I  ask  more  mercy  for  him  be 
cause  he  is  a  stranger ;  I  ask  you  to  discard  prejudices 
that  are  inherent  in  most  of  us ;  I  ask  you  to  do  him 
justice,  as  perhaps  you  would  ask  to  have  justice  done  to 
some  sailor  lad  of  yours,  cast  by  fate  into  a  foreign  prison. 
"  Gentlemen,  this  case  has  been  cruelly  prejudged  and 
falsified ;  when  I  have  shown  you  all,  I  think  you  will 
agree  with  me.  Let  me  begin  by  putting  before  -you 
the  theory  of  the  prosecution,  and  by  pointing  out  a  few 
of  its  weak  points.  You  are  asked  to  believe  that  this 
man  before  yon  has  murdered  the  innocent  and  beauti 
ful  children  of  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  because  he 
was  persuaded  that  they  stood  between  him  and  the  at 
tainment  of  her  hand.  They  represent  him  to  you  as 
sane,  as  resolute  ;  they  do  not  even  ask  you  to  believe  it 
was  in  transport  of  rage,  because,  sometimes,  one  is  sorry 
for  a  man  whose  sufferings  drive  him  to  extremity,  and 
because  high-tempered  jurymen  might  have  some  sym 
pathy  for  such  a  one.  No,  he  has  done  it  deliberately, 
he  has  plotted  and  planned,  he  is  a  devil  in  man's  shape  ; 
he  has  belied  all  that  has  been  known  of  him,  all  his 
goodness  and  lightheartedness ;  he  commits  this  mon 
strous  crime,  and  he  goes  away,  meaning,  forsooth,  to 
come  back  and  marry  the  mother  when  her  days  of 
mourning  shall  be  ended.  Gentlemen,  T  won't  affront 
your  intelligence  by  much  dwelling  on  a  theory  like 
this.  One  asks  naturally  for  a  motive  for  the  commis- 


278  COUNSEL    FOB    THE    DKFENCE. 

sion  of  such  a  crime.  There  was  every  motive  that  he 
should  not  commit  it.  The  prosecution  declares  that 
she  returned  his  affection  ;  that  perhaps  his  poverty  and 
her  desire  to  devote  her  means  and  all  her  time  to  the 
care  and  education  of  these  children,  prevented  her 
from  marrying  him.  If  her  affection  for  them  living 
was  too  great  to  be  overcome  by  all  his  passion,  what 
would  her  love  for  them  be,  dead  by  such  a  cruel  death 
as  this?  If  there  was  a  gulf  between  them  before, 
there  would  be  an  ocean  now.  There  is  no  room  for 
such  a  theory  in  any  man's  mind.  I  declare  it  to  be 
utterly  preposterous. 

"  Let  us  look  at  the  evidence,  and  see  how  it  is  sus 
tained.  The  prisoner  is  shown  to  you,  by  the  testimony 
of  all  the  witnesses,  even  the  woman  Sophia,  as  uni 
formly  gentle,  gentlemanly,  affectionate  to  children, 
tender-hearted,  keenly  averse  to  giving  pain ;  it  was 
impossible  from  his  temperament  for  him  to  have  done 
this  deed.  The  mother  of  these  children  trusted  him, 
enjoyed  his  society  ;  '  I  was  glad  to  have  him  for  my 
friend,'  she  says,  in  her  testimony.  I  should  believe 
she  was  a  woman  not  easil}r  deceived  ;  her  instincts  are 
line  ;  she  has  keen,  womanly  discernment.  What  if  she 
cannot  love  him  ?  '  Love  comes  unsought,  unsent.' 
Perhaps  her  heart  is  in  the  grave.  She  cannot  return 
his  affection ;  she  has  to  deal  this  blow,  but  you  may  be 
sure  she  does  it  gently.  Let  us  look  at  the  character  of 
the  woman  Sophia.  She  loves  her  mistress — apparently 
most  people  love  her  who  come  near  her — but  she  is 
consumed  with  a  jealous  hatred  of  the  young  tutor ; 
she  sees  in  him  a  suitor  from  the  first.  She  dreads  a 
master  in  the  little  household.  I  am  afraid  she  has 
been  mistress,  and  ruled  it  with  an  iron  rule.  The 


COUNSEL    FOE    THE    DEFENCE.  279 

young  housekeeper  and  mother  yields  to  her  judgment 
in  all  things,  lets  her  manage  matters  as  she  will  in  the 
menage.  It  would  not  suit  Sophia  to  have  a  master 
enter  ;  she  will  fight  against  it.  She  doesn't  mind  the 
weapons  that  she  fights  with.  She  does  all  she  can  to 
prejudice  her  mistress,  but  she  makes  little  headway 
here.  Her  mistress,  with  all  her  gentleness,  knows  her 
own  mind  upon  the  subject,  and,  we  may  well  believe, 
keeps  her  own  counsel,  too.  You  have  heard  the  his 
tory  of  the  pocket-handkerchief.  Desderaona's  didn't 
pass  througl i  hands  more  treacherous  ;  she  steals  it  from 
her  mistress'  room,  hides  it  till  she  sees  a  fitting  mo 
ment  to  produce  it  to  the  prisoner's  hurt.  She  isn't 
above  eavesdropping  either,  this  estimable  servant. 
She  can  pry  not  only  into  her  lady's  boxes  and  drawers, 
but  into  her  secrets,  too.  She  listens  outside  the  parlor 
window,  to  the  broken-hearted  lover,  who  goes  away 
forever  from  the  woman  who  likes  but  cannot  love 
him,  who  pities,  but  who  cannot  help  him.  She  sees  his 
pallor,  his  agitation  ;  she  gloats  upon  his  wretchedness. 
Crouched  down,  gazing  through  the  blind-door,  she 
reports  to  us  his  manner  and  appearance,  as  he  went  for 
the  last  time  out  of  the  little  cottage,  where,  for  a 
happy  summer,  he  has  fed  his  hopes.  Trusty,  faithful 
creature !  She  can  swear  falsely,  too,  or  forget  amaz 
ingly.  Recall  her  testimony  about  the  stair  door,  left  un 
bolted.  Two  witnesses,  her  mistress  and  Matilda,  prove 
her  false  about  it.  Then  remember  the  brutal  words 
with  which  she  flings  the  awful  tidings  into  the  poor 
young  mother's  face.  l  Come  and  see  your  lover's 
work !'  Even  in  that  appalling  moment,  when  her 
nurslings  lie  dead  before  her,  her  consuming  hatred 
rises  up  above  all  other  feelings ;  one  can  almost  be- 


280  COUNSEL    FOR    THE    DEFENCE. 

lieve  the  Scripture  story  of  demoniacal  possession  acted 
over  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

"  I  ask  you  to  put  at  its  true  value  the  testimony  of 
a  witness  ruled  by  such  a  deadly  passion.  I  deny  that 
she  can  see  even  the  smallest  detail  in  an  unbiassed 
light.  Hatred  and  jealousy,  such  as  she  stands  con 
victed  of,  put  her  out  of  the  pale  of  public  confidence. 
I  ask  you  to  throw  out  her  testimony,  and  to  render 
your  verdict  as  if  she  had  not  spoken. 

"Of  the  medical  testimony  I  must  speak  briefly. 
The  professional  gentlemen  have  told  you  the  causes  of 
the  death  of  the  two  children.  They  agree  that,  while 
life  might  be  extinguished  in  three  minutes,  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  imagine  such  dexterity,  such  cold-bloodedness. 
The  prisoner,  having  said  his  last  good-bye  to  the 
mother,  just  on  the  threshold  turns  back,  and  says: 
'  Mayn't  I  go  in  and  look  at  the  children  before  I  go  ?' 
Their  room  is  on  the  same  floor.  He  knows  the  ways 
about  the  quaint  little  cottage  ;  he  goes  in  to  give  them 
a  good-bye  kiss,  for  he  is  going  from  America  forever 
on  the  morrow.  The  hands  of  the  clock  point  at  live 
minutes  before  nine ;  the  lady  notices  it,  the  maid  no 
tices  it ;  they  think  that  he  will  miss  his  train.  They 
are  both  within  call.  Fancy  him  going  through  that 
deadly  work,  not  knowing  at  what  instant  the  nurse's 
black  eyes  may  gleam  in  upon  him !  He  has  three 
minutes  to  make  sure  that  both  are  dead.  He  comes 
out  cool  and  steady,  passes  through  the  hall,  past  the 
mother,  past  the  stealthy  nurse,  out  into  the  street,  and 
takes  his  way  coolly  to  the  train,  to  miss  which  is  to 
meet  death.  Escape  is  all  his  thought  now.  Does  he 
hurry  ?  Does  he  come,  pale  and  panting,  on  the  plat 
form  steps  ?  You  have  heard  the  testimony  of  the  rail- 


COUNSEL    FOR    THE    DEFENCE.  281 

road  employees.  ~No  man  was  ever  cooler,  graver, 
quieter.  They  start.  The  train  is  delayed  on  the  way 
nearly  two  hours.  Does  that  fire  him  with  impatience  ? 
Why  does  he  not  spring  off  at  some  of  the  many  halting- 
places,  and  strike  off  across  the  country,  reach  the  coast, 
and  get  away  upon  some  out-bound  vessel?  Gentle 
men,  I  will  not  war;te  your  time  over  such  a  theory  as 
this ;  it  is  too  palpable  a  folly. 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  the  cottage,  where  the  young 
mother  sits,  thoughtful  and  silent,  on  the  dark  balcon^. 
She  is  thinking  of  many  things ;  of  the  sorrow  that 
she  has  had  to  cause  ;  of  the  pleasant  Summer  that  has 
ended  in  pain  to  one  whom  she  has  cared  for  and  re 
spected  ;  she  thinks  of  her  children  ;  she  feels  she  has 
her  little  brood  under  her  wings,  though  the  night  is 
dark  and  somber.  Perhaps  her  mind  goes  into  the 
past,  recalling  a  face  and  voice  that  she  will  never  see 
and  hear  but  in  dreams  ao-ain.  ]STo  wonder  she  is  ab- 

o 

sorbed ;  no  wonder  that  the  light  sounds  of  the  intruder's 
tread  in  the  darkened  rooms  beyond  the  parlor  escape 
her  ear.  The  lynx-eyed  nurse  has  left  her  post ;  sha 
has  gone  to  the  front  window,  and  is  stealthily  gazing 
out  upon  her  mistress,  wondering  what  her  feelings 
are,  now  that  she  has  sent  away  her  lover.  ~No  wonder 
that  she  heard  nothing;  she  is  absorbed  indeed.  At 
what  moment  the  tramp  entered  from  the  barn,  where 
since  twilight  he  probably  had  been  concealed,  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  say.  It  seems  probable  to  me  he  followed  shortly 
after  the  sleepy  Indian  woman,  whom  he  had  been 
watching  through  the  window.  He  opens  the  kitchen 
door,  steals  across  it,  follows  the  woman  through  the 
stair  door  with  which  he  had  acquainted  himself  in  the 
morning.  He  gropes  about  and  enters  tfye  first  door  he 


282  COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE. 

finds,  which  is  that  of  the  lady's  bed-room.  While 
searching  for  plunder  here,  he  hears  a  step ;  it  is  Mac- 
nally's,  going  to  the  children's  bedside.  He  hastily 
conceals  himself  inside  the  closet.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  step  goes  out,  silence  reigns  again.  He  steals  out, 
across  the  dark,  open  chamber,  into  the  room  where  the 
children  lie  asleep.  He  busies  himself  in  searching 
about  for  money  or  valuables ;  he  is  not  a  practiced 
housebreaker ;  he  is  a  clumsy  brute  of  a  tramp  ;  ignorant, 
but  rapacious  ;  probably  not  long  in  the  country ;  not 
familiar  with  the  ways  of  households  here.  Some  sound 
he  makes  near  the  bed  of  one  of  the  children  rouses  her  ; 
she  sits  up,  looks  around.  He  starts  toward  her  ;  she 
makes  a  little  cry,  which  rouses  the  other,  who  stirs  in 
her  sleep.  He  is  standing  between  the  cribs  ;  terror 
seizes  him;  if  they  make  an  outcry,  he  will  be  caught. 
"  It  is  a  short  work  to  silence  the  little  throats ;  he  is 
a  coward,  a  brute,  little  better  than  an  animal ;  human 
life,  so  easily  crushed  out,  seems  to  him  little  in  com 
parison  with  the  chance  of  detection  and  a  few  months 
in  the  county  jail.  He  has  had  enough  of  the  attempt ; 
he  is  thoroughly  frightened  ;  he  stumbles  his  way  out, 
creeps  down  the  stairs,  goes  softly  out  the  kitchen,  door. 
It  is  a  very  dark  night ;  he  makes  his  way  along  the 
little  path ;  brushes  against  the  lilac  bushes  that  stand 
beside  the  gate.  From  the  silent  balcony  above,  the 
mother  looks  down  and  listens.  She  hears  the  gate 
open  very  softly,  and  then  shut.  She  little  knows  who 
has  passed  out,  and  what  ruin  has  been  left  behind. 
She  goes  forward  across  the  balcony  to  see  where  Sophia 
is — if  she  has  heard  it.  No,  Sophia  has  resumed  her 
sewing  and  her  stolid  silence.  Sophia  has  not  heard  it,  she 
is  intent  on  other  things  than  sounds  like  these.  The 


COUNSEL  FOE  THE  DEFENCE.          283 

hours  pass.  The  two  sit  there  silent,  characteristically 
employed,  one  in  quiet  retrospection,  the  other  in  sharp 
manual  labor,  and  fierce,  angry  thoughts.  You  know 
the  rest.  You  know  the  first  words  that  the  woman 
speaks  when  she  beholds  the  appalling  sight ;  it  is  the 
index  to  the  whole.  She  has  a  force,  a  power  of 
her  own;  she  bends  people  to  her  way  of  thinking 
in  an  unusual  way.  She  is  convinced  in  her  own  mind ; 
I  do  not  say  she  is  not ;  she  leaves  no  room  for  doubt 
in  any  mind  as  to  who  has  done  the  deed.  She  hounds 
them  on  to  search  for  and  arrest  Macnally ;  she  is  in 
authority,  in  a  certain  way,  in  the  stricken  house  ;  they 
defer  to  her ;  no  one  has  any  other  theory  to  oppose  to 
hers ;  it  is  as  she  says.  And  while,  with  vixen  fury, 
she  points  them  to  the  discarded  lover,  the  brutal  mur 
derer,  dull  and  slow  of  wit,  goes  safely  off  to  swamps 
and  woods  and  bays,  where  he  may  take  his  time,  and 
get  away  securely.  The  house  was  not  properly 
searched ;  the  traces  that  might  have  been  found  were, 
in  the  confusion,  lost.  I  do  not  blame  the  local  officers 
exactly.  I  know  what  is  the  force  and  fire  of  such  a 
woman's  tongue  as  this.  We  do  not  know  exactly  what 
things  are  missing  from  the  house.  In  the  dismay  and 
anguish  none  of  the  inhabitants  can  tell  what  may  have 
been  abstracted.  The  mother  alone  has  yearned  for 
the  little  broken  toy ;  the  mate  of  the  little  shoe  that  is 
now  her  dearest  treasure.  When  we  know  where  those 
two  things  are,  we  shall  Jcnow  who  is  the  murderer.  Till 
they  are  brought  into  the  court,  gentlemen,  these  chil 
dren  came  to  their  death  by  the  hands  of  a  person  or 
persons  unknown.  Nothing  else  is  possible. 

"  There  is  one  more  point  I  must  touch  upon,  gentle 
men  of  the  jury,  and  I  have  done.     A  great  emphasis 


284  COUNSEL     FOR    THE    DEFENCE. 

is  laid  by  the  prosecution  upon  the  fact,  if  it  is  a  fact, 
that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  does  not  give  you  his  true 
name.  They  imply  that  he  is  an  adventurer,  a  man 
whose  antecedents  will  weigh  him  down  if  he  presents 
them.  They  say,  he  dares  not  tell  the  truth  about  him 
self,  or  he  would  tell  it,  to  save  him  from  the  gallows. 
I  will  tell  them  something  that  he  dares  do  ;  he  dares  risk 
the  gallows  rather  than  stain,  even  by  an  accusation  of 
crime,  the  honored  name  he  bears.  For  some  youthful 
folly,  some  petulance  of  home-control,  he  comes  to 
America,  and,  in  his  new-bom  independence,  he  drops 
the  surname  by  which  he  would  be  identified,  and  is 
known  by  his  baptismal  name  alone. 

"  That  was  an  unwise  thing  to  do ;  don't  let  your  boys 
ever  do  it !  It's  all  very-  well  if  nothing  happens,  but 
if  it  does,  see  the  scrape  it  gets  one  in.  It  looks  badly. 
I  acknowledge  it.  I  have  pleaded  with  my  client  to  dis 
close  his  family  name.  I  might  have  as  well  have  pleaded 
with  Plymouth  Rock.  '  If  I  perish,  I  perish.'  I  like 
the  generous  surrender  of  himself  to  the  consequences 
of  his  boyish  folly,  but,  professionally,  I  strongly  disap 
prove.  '  C'cst  magnijique,  mais  ce  rfcst  pas  la  guerre? 
He  sees  in  fancy  the  agony  and  dismay  of  mother,  sis 
ter,  father,  when  the  cruel  news  is  brought ;  he  thinks 
of  the  distance,  of  the  long  days  of  suspense  before  the 
end  is  readied  ;  he  will  not  bring  such  sorrow  into  the 
home  he  never  should  have  left ;  they  shall  never  know 
he  was  accused  of  murder ;  that  he  stood  at  the  bar  of 
justice,  to  plead  for  life ;  that  he  dragged  down  a 
hitherto  unsullied  name  into  the  slime  of  criminals  and 
prisons. 

"  Gentlemen,  we  many  of  us  have  sons.  I  have  a  boy, 
God  bless  him !  now  going  through  the  fire  of  early 


COUNSEL    FOR    THE    DEFENCE.  285 

college  life.  I  believe  he  is  a  good  boy ;  I  believe  lie 
will  be  the  stay  and  support  of  his  mother  and  sisters 
when  I  am  dead  and  gone.  But  for  all  that,  I  wouldn't 
guarantee  that  he'll  keep  free  of  folly  and  entanglement 
while  he  is  in  his  tiery,  foolish  years.  I've  paid  some  of 
his  debts  for  him  already.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  pay 
some  more.  It  isn't  even  on  the  books  that  he  mayn't 
some  day  take  the  bit  between  his  teeth,  and  walk  off 
across  the  ocean  with  only  the  formality  of  his  middle 
name.  If  he  does,  and  gets  into  a  scrape,  though  he's  a 
good  fellow,  I  sha'n't  expect  him  to  show  the  pluck 
that  this  young  fellow  shows,  and  refuse  to  appeal  to 
me.  I'm  sure  he'd  send  a  speedy  telegram  across  the 
ocean,  and  call  upon  rne  to  get  him  out  of  his  entangle 
ment.  It  would  be  the  wisest  way,  though  perhaps 
not  the  most  heroic. 

"  Gentlemen,  -we  have  all  been  young ;  let  us  not  be 
hard  upon  the  faults  of  youth.  Let  us  show  the  in 
dulgence  to  this  young  stranger  that  we  would  have 
asked  for  ourselves ;  that  we  would  ask  for  our  sons,  if 
they  should  ever,  by  complicated  imprudence  and  mis 
fortune,  fall  into  the  strait  that  he  has  fallen  into.  I 
leave  his  case  in  your  hands  with  confidence  and  a  sense 
of  full  security." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

COUNSEL  FOR  THE  PROSECUTION. 

"All  my  spirits, 

As  if  they  had  heard  my  passing-bell  go  for  me, 
Pull  in  their  powers,  and  give  me  up  to  destiny." 

Fletcher. 

I  DREW  a  deep  breath ;  it  seemed  to  me  the  matter 
was  ended.  I  was  not  at  the  pains  to  listen  very 
attentively  when  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  rose, 
and  began  his  summing  up.  (Xot  the  suffused  and  light- 
haired  Mr.  Bell,  who  had  conducted  the  examinations, 
but  the  senior  counsel ;  senior,  but  still  young.)  I  list 
ened,  as  we  listen  to  things  of  secondary  moment  in  a 
play,  when  we  know  how  it  is  all  coming  out.  His 
manner  was  a  great  contrast  to  the  other  speaker's,  his 
voice  a  very  inferior  affair.  He  spoke  conversationally, 
as  if  he  had  his  linger  in  the  button-hole  of  every  jury 
man.  I  began  to  see  he  wasn't  "addressing  them"  as 
across  a  gulf,  but  that  he  had  a  hold  upon  them,  as 
being  one  of  themselves ;  when  he  sneered  at  the  op 
posing  counsel,  he  sneered  from  their  side  of  the  fence. 
tSiitphen  County  is  famed  for  being  very  clannish ;  it 
was  not  impossible  that  every  juryman  before  him  was 
more  or  less  nearly  related  to  him  by  birth  or  by  con 
nection.  He  was  the  rising  lawyer  of  the  county ;  they 
were  all  proud  of  him.  It  was  possible  that  they 
wouldn't  want  to  see  him  lose  his  case — a  case,  the  like 
[286] 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  PROSECUTION.        287 

of  which  had  never  been  before  the  bar  of  Sutphen 
County  since  it  had  been  a  county,  and  had  had  a  bar. 

"  It's  been  a  great  treat,  I'm  sure,"  he  said.  "  We're 
not  used  to  such  tine  speaking  here  in  this  part  of  the 
country  ;  and  I,  for  one,  have  been  quite  carried  away 
by  it.  I'm  sure  I  can  answer  for  all  of  yon,  that  you've 
been  very  much  pleased — very  much  pleased.  When 
we  put  Tom  Turner  up  for  surrogate  again,  we'll  know 
who  to  send  for  to  stump  the  county  for  him."  (Tom 
Turner  was  a  very  weak  candidate  for  surrogate  at  the 
last  election,  who  had  been  overwhelmingly  -defeated. 
There  was  an  audible  titter.)  '"  I  almost  think  I  should 
vote  for  Tom  Turner  myself,  if  he  spoke  for  him.  I 
assure  you,  he  quite  carries  me  away.  But,  I'll  tell 
you,  there's  one  thing  I  come  back  to,  after  I've  been 
carried  away  by  this  extraordinary  tide  of  talk,  and 
that  is,  Facts.  And  I  don't  know  but  I'm  a  little  stub- 
borner  after  I  get  back  to  them,  than  before,  for  I  am 
just  a  tritie  ashamed  of  myself  for  being  taken  off  my 
feet  that  way.  Facts,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  facts 
are  what  the  law  undertakes  to  deal  with  ;  not  theories, 
nor  flights  of  fancy. 

"Now,  this  tramp  business,  gentlemen,  you'll  excuse 
me  if  I  call  that  a  very  decided  liight  of  fancy.  I 
shouldn't  like  to  call  it  anything  else ;  the  counsel's  a 
stranger  in  these  parts,  and  he's  anxious  we  should  be 
particularly  good  to  strangers.  He  quotes  the  Bible 
about  it,  you  know.  Well,  we'll  call  it  a  liight  of  fancy. 
That  poor,  stupid  Dutchman,  who  was  seen  around  that 
day  by  several  witnesses,  had  about  as  much  to  do  with 
the  murder  as  my  dog  Major  had.  Now,  that  lane  from 
Old  Town  Pond  is  a  highway  in  everything  but  name. 
You  all  know  as  well  as  I  do,  people  go  across  there 


288  COUNSEL     FOR    THE     PROSECUTION. 

every  day  in  the  week  without  being  bound  to  the 
Detmold  farm-house ;  I  suppose  we  must  call  it  the  cot 
tage  now — quaint  little  cottage,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
It's  a  mighty  damp,  rickety,  old  farm-house,  in  point 
of  fact,  but  since  it's  been  occupied  by  city  people,  it's 
politer  to  say  it  is  a  cottage.  The  folks  that  have  been 
in  it  this  year  must  have  got  used  to  having  foot  pas 
sengers  going  through  the  yard,  night  and  day.  The 
place  was  shut  up  so  long,  everybody  got  in  the 
habit  of  going  along  that  way  from  Wickapogue  and 
thereabouts  ;  it  cuts  off  half  a  mile  or  so.  The  tramp 
had  as  good  a  right  as  anybody  to  go  through  (that 
was  no  right  at  all,  but  he'd  be  as  likely  as  any  one  to 
take  it).  He  went  through,  most  likely,  when  the  fam 
ily  were  in  at  tea,  or  maybe  he  struck  off  to  the  village 
through  the  iields  before  he  got  to  the  farm-yard. 
Again,  the  motive  of  the  tramp  was  burglary,  and  no 
burglary  has  been  committed ;  a  footstool  has  been 
overturned  and  a  couple  of  worthless  articles  are  miss 
ing.  We  won't  waste  time  over  that.  It  speaks  for 
itself. 

"  Now,  a  little  about  that  kitchen  stair  door.  Matilda's 
story  was  a  plain,  straightforward  one,  on  the  direct  ex 
amination.  You  don't  expect  a  poor  Shinnecock  half- 
breed  to  stand  up  against  a  city  lawyer's  be  fogging 
questions.  On  the  cross-examination  she  contradicted 
herself,  as  any  one  of  her  gauge  of  intellect  would  do. 
She  shut  that  kitchen  door  and  bolted  it ;  she  would 
have  done  it  by  force  of  habit,  if  she  had  been  fast 
asleep.  Sophia  trusted  her,  and  that  shows  she'd  never 
failed  to  shut  it  up  before.  The  lower  part  of  that 
house  was  shut  off  from  communication  with  the  upper, 
as  fast  as  bars  and  bolts  could  make  it.  A  noisy  little 


COUNSEL    FOR    THE    PROSECUTION.  289 

poodle,  who  never  let  a  stranger  enter  the  gate  without 
barking  himself  into  tits,  lay  silent  on  the  rug,  and  never 
lifted  np  his  voice.  The  rear  was  till  secure  ;  the  front 
was  guarded  by  two  wakeful  women,  in  full  possession 
of  their  faculties.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  nobody  got 
into  that  house  from  the  rear  that  night ;  you  know  it 
as  well  as  I  know  it,  notwithstanding  this  distinguished 
lawyer's  flight  of  fancy.  Who  got  in  from  the  front, 
and  how  did  he  get  in  ?  You  have  heard  the  story  so 
many  times,  it's  scarcely  worth  while  to  tell  it  all  again. 
Bernard  Macnally,  or  the  man  that's  passed  among  us 
by  that  name,  was  the  last  person  to  go  into  that  room 
where  the  children  lay.  No  other  person  could  have 
got  in,  no  other  person  did  get  in ;  it  wasn't  prejudging 
the  murderer,  when  the  work  was  seen,  to  say  whose 
work  it  was.  Nobody  else  had  a  chance  to  do  the 
work  ;  no  one  else  had  a  motive  to  do  the  work. 

"The  counsel  for  the  defence  has  given  us  a  good 
deal  of  talk  about  motive.  He  says  the  prisoner  hadn't 
any  motive.  Well,  I  say  he  had.  Different  men  need 
different  motives  to  push  them  on  to  doing  things.  This 
man  is  a  cool  hand.  I  think  he  may  have  been  in  so 
many  tight  places  before,  he  has  got  pretty  well  used 
to  tight  places,  and  that  sort  of  experience  gives  a  man 
courage.  He  knew  he  could  do  it ;  he  had  done  as 
risky  things  before.  He  is  a  man  of  force,  there's  no 
denying  that.  He  knew  this  widow  loved  him  ;  I 
don't  want  to  say  anything  against  her,  but  she  doesnrt 
come  quite  up  to  our  notion  of  good  conduct  in  this 
county,  if  she  let  him  be  hanging  round  her  all  sum 
mer  in  the  way  she  did,  if  she  didn't  want  to  marry 
him,  that's  all.  But  she  did  want  to  marry  him.  The 
only  thing  in  the  way  was  the  children.  She  hadn't 
13 


290  COUNSEL     FOR    THE    PROSECUTION. 

money  enough  to  support  this  gay  young  gentleman, 
and  do  justice  to  the  children,  too.  I've  no  doubt  she 
got  a  little  good  advice  from  Sophia  Atkinson.  Well, 
she  made  up  her  mind  at  last  she'd  do  her  duty  by  the 
children,  and  she  sent  him  oft'. 

"  You're  not  to  believe  Sophia,  because  she  listened. 
Pooh,  whoo !  What  woman  can  you  believe,  then  ? 
I'm  not  sure  but  a  man  would  have  listened  under  the 
circumstances. 

"Xow  the  rear  of  the  house  is  all  shut  up,  dark  as 
a  pocket,  and  as  tight.  The  prisoner  has  said  good-bye 
to  his  lady-love.  1  should  have  thought  he  would  have 
been  thinking  about  nothing  but  that.  But  he  asks  to 
go  and  see  the  children,  too.  lie  goes  in,  by  the  only 
entrance  one  could  get  in,  to  the  nursery.  When  he 
comes  out,  Sophia  sees  him.  lie  looks  white  and  bad  ; 
he  walks  past  the  mother  of  the  children  without  a  word  ; 
he  doesn't  offer  to  touch  her  hand.  I  shouldn't  think  he 
would  !  He  goes  away  ;  he  knows  he  has  time.  He 
trusts  to  luck  ;  he's  had  pretty  good  luck  so  far  in  his  ex 
ploits,  perhaps.  lie  is  a  cool  hand,  remember.  It  needn't 
surprise  us  that  he  shows  no  fright  and  nervousness  till  he 
is  arrested.  We  may  know  all  about  that  sort  of  thing  if 
we  will  look  over  the  police  reports.  I  contend  this  man, 
of  whom  we  know  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  till  ten 
months  ago,  is  a  member  of  what  we  call  the  criminal 
class.  It  isn't  a  small  class  either,  if  we  are  to  believe 
all  the  reports.  We  live  in  the  country,  and  it  is  hard 
to  believe  in  such  depravity.  I  could  cite  you  twenty 
cases  that  I  have  come  across  in  my  reading,  that  have 
in  them  a  great  deal  that  is  parallel.  lie  means  to  go 
to  Europe,  stay  away  awhile,  and  come  back  for  the 
widow  and  her  nice  snug  fortune,  when  things  shall  be 


COUNSEL     FOB    THE    PROSECUTION.  291 

smoothed  out  a  little.     I  don't  say  this  is  a  pleasant 
theory,  but  it  is  strictly  in  accordance  with  the  facts. 

"  But,  in  many  ways,  this  case  has  narrowed  down  to 
a  contest  between  two  witnesses.  If  you  believe 
Sophia  Atkinson,  you  believe  there  was  no  possibility 
for  any  one  to  enter  the  rear  of  the  house.  If  you  be 
lieve  her  mistress,  you  are  forced  to  admit  there  was. 
If  you  believe,  again,  this  latter,  you  believe  some  one 
went  out  the  gate,  meaning  to  get  away  without  at 
tracting  observation.  If  you  believe  Sophia,  you  be 
lieve  no  one  could  have  done  it  without  her  quick  ears 
hearing  them  go  out.  The  counsel  for  the  defence 
says  you  mustn't  believe  Sophia,  because  she  listened, 
and  because  she  kept  that  handkerchief  with  half  the 
alphabet  embroidered  on  it.  Oh,  yes !  and  because  she 
didn't  like  the  prisoner  from  the  first,  and  thought  him 
a  bad  lot.  Well,  do  you  know,  it  strikes  me  those  are 
just  three  counts  on  which  you  ought  to  trust  her.  I 
don't  blame  her  for  listening.  Her  mistress  was 
young;  she  had  been  her  nurse  before  she  was  her 
children's  nurse ;  she  saw  she  was  being  entrapped  by 
a  bad  fellow ;  she  watched  day  and  night  to  save  her. 
The  handkerchief  (which,  gentlemen,  is  one  of  a  set 
found  in  the  prisoner's  trunk)  was  something  tangible 
to  show  he  wasn't  Bernard  Macually,  no  matter  if  he 
was  a  perfect  gentleman,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
She  kept  it  in  a  safe  place,  till  she  could  use  it  to  con 
vince  the  younger  woman  of  the  mistake  that  she  was 
making.  And  I  don't  blame  her  very  much  for  not 
liking  him  from  the  very  first.  I  think  it's  to  the 
credit  of  her  judgment  that  she  didn't.  An  intelligent 
American  wrornan  of  her  age,  who  has  been  trusted  all 
her  life  by  the  family  that  she's  lived  with,  can't  be 


292  COUNSEL     FOR    THE     PROSECUTION. 

pooh-poohed  off  the  witness-stand  by  the  flight  of 
fancy  of  even  a  distinguished  lawyer  from  the  city. 
Sophia  Atkinson  is  the  sort  of  witness  I  like ;  she's  the 
sort  of  woman  I  like;  I'd  like  her  in  my  family.  If 
she's  ever  out  of  place,  I  hope  she'll  remember  my  ad 
dress.  If  I  had  a  lot  of  young  daughters,  ready  to  be 
fallen  in  love  with  by  adventurers  from  Ireland,  I'd 
like  to  have  her  round.  She'd  suit  me  to  a  T. 

"  .N  ow,  as  to  her  mistress  as  a  witness.  Gentlemen,  I 
don't  like  to  say  anything  that  isn't  flattering  about  a  lady. 
I  am  sorry  for  the  sufferings  she  has  undergone,  as  sorry 
as  the  counsel  on  the  other  side.  Perhaps  I'm  not  as 
easily  overcome  by  personal  attractions  as  he  is  ;  we  don't 
think  so  much  about  things  of  that  kind  in  the  country, 
maybe,  after  \vc  marry  and  settle  down.  But  I  must 
say,  there  are  things  I  don't  understand.  That  gate,  for 
instance — why  didn't  Sophia  hear  it  ?  She  was  almost 
as  near.  It  came  in  so  pat,  that  gate.  It  was  a  god- 
Bend  to  the  defence.  I  don't  know  where  the  defence 
would  have  gone  to  have  hunted  up  a  theory  but  fur 
the  lifting  of  that  gate-latch.  Then  that  bolt  on  the 
door  of  the  kitchen  stairs.  It's  remarkable  the  lady 
should  have  remembered  it  so  long — just  that  little  cir 
cumstance.  It  wasn't  as  if  she  was  shutting  up  the 
house  herself ;  it  wasn't  as  if  anybody  had  suggested, 
for  days  after  the  murder,  that  it  was  of  the  least  im 
portance  in  the  case.  Her  remembering  it  so  very 
clearly  is  a  thing  that — well,  that  I  can't  understand 
exactly.  Only  on  one  theory.  Now,  don't  be  shocked, 
gentlemen.  I  don't  want  to  be  impolite.  But  I  feel 
a  sort  of  certainty  of  one  thing.  She  didn't  remember  it 
till  she  saw  it  was  a  necessary  thing  to  be  remembered. 
Don't  be  shocked  ;  I  can't  help  it.  It  was  a  strong 


COUNSEL     FOR    THE     PROSECUTION.  293 

temptation.  You  see,  she  wants  to  save  him.  She — • 
well,  she's  in  love  with  him,  gentlemen,  and  you  know 
what  that  means.  You  know  it  means,  with  a  woman, 
that  she  wouldn't  stop  at  anything.  I'm  sorry  for  her. 
It's  an  awful  thing  all  round.  An  infatuation  of  that 
sort  will  outlive  everything.  You  know  the  law  won't 
receive  a  woman's  testimony  for  or  against  her  husband. 
The  law  knows  a  woman  can't  be  trusted  to  tell  the 
truth  when  it  comes  to  hurting  a  hair  of  the  man's  head 
that  she  loves.  Now,  I  don't  pretend  to  say  this  lady 
knows  she  has — well — misstated  facts  a  little.  I  don't 
say  she  would  deliberately  say  what  wasn't  strictly  true. 
But  she  wants  it  to  be  true  eo  dreadfully ;  she  thinks 
about  it,  and  thinks  about  it,  and  ends  up  in  believing 
it  herself.  You  can't  trust  a  woman  in  love ;  there's  no 
way  out  of  that.  It  introduces  a  nice  moral  question. 
It's  just  the  sort  of  thing  my  brother  for  the  defence 
could  spread  out,  till  you  didn't  know  head  from  tail  of 
it.  It  isn't  in  my  line,  you  see.  I  wish  I  could  retain 
him  to  expound  it  to  you.  But  as  that's  impossible,  we'll 
have  to  let  it  drop. 

"  Gentlemen,  let's  go  back  ft  minute  to  that  parting 
between  the  prisoner  and  this  lady.  You've  heard  a 
great  deal  about  it ;  but  I  ask  your  patience  while  I  re 
peat  to  you  the  words  which  Sophia  Atkinson  testifies 
to  having  heard  him  say,  and  which  her  mistress  doesn't 
deny  he  said.  They're  just  these.  I  ask  you  to  bear 
them  in  your  mind.  You  remember  he  had  asked  her, 
desperately,  at  the  last,  why  he  must  go  away,  and  she  had 
told  him,  he  must  go.  Then  he  said  (please  remember 
these  words),  '  It  is  your  children  stand  between  us,  you 
cannot  say  it  is  not.  You  aren't  willing  to  trust  them 
to  me,  whatever  you  might  Ije  willing  for  yourself.1 


294  COUNSEL     FOR     THE    PROSECUTION. 

Whenever  the  defence  talks  to  you  about  motive,  just 
turn  those  words  over  in  your  mind,  and  see  what  you 
can  make  of  them.  I  tell  you  what  /make  of  'em.  i 
make  of  'em  motive  enough  to  hang  him  high  as  Hainan. 
That  is  all.  I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  any  more 
about  it.  People  on  the  east  end  of  Long  Island  don't 
have  to  be  talked  to  all  night  to  make  'em  understand 
a  thing.  I  suppose  it  comes  of  living  so  near  the  be 
ginning  of  things ;  they  get  an  earlier  start. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  I  believe  I  have  come  to  the  last 
point  I  want  to  draw  your  attention  to.  In  the  judg 
ment  of  the  law,  a  man's  previous  character  goes  for 
a  great  deal.  Once  establish  that  a  man  accused  or 
any  crime  has  walked  a  steady,  straight  road  in  the 
sight  of  all  men  for  a  lifetime,  and  you've  as  good  as 
cleared  him.  A  man's  life,  I  say  again,  goes  for  a  good 
deal,  and  it  ought  to  go  for  a  good  deal.  Men  don't 
break  out  all  of  a  sudden  into  murderers  and  thieves. 
It  doesn't  come  upon  'em  like  the  small-pox,  unless 
they've  had  it  in  their  system.  Now,  gentlemen,  let's 
look  at  this  man  before  us.  Ten  months  ago,  he  rose 
out  of  the  earth,  or  dropped  down  from  the  sky,  into 
the  Emlyn  family.  Colonel  Emlyn, — now,  I've  a  great 
respect  for  Colonel  Emlyn,  he's  a  neighbor  of  mine, 
and  we  get  along  first-rate  together — but  I  wouldn't 
set  him  to  take  care  of  my  family  exactly.  He  adver 
tises  for  a  tutor,  and  along  comes  this  one.  He  is  a 
taking  young  fellow ;  he  talks  the  colonel  into  engaging 
him  without  a  word  of  reference.  He  doesn't  know 
whether  he  dropped  from  the  sky,  as  I  say,  or  burrowed 
his  way  out  from  the  ground.  He  doesn't  ask.  He 
takes  him.  He  brings  him  home,  makes  him  one  of 
the  family.  In  fact,  I  don't  know  but  he  makes  him, 


COUNSEL  FOR  THE  PROSECUTION.         295 
i 

the  most  important  member  of  his  family.  He  has  the 
best  of  everything,  he's  made  a  sort  of  pet  of,  he's  a 
privileged  person,  he's  introduced  to  the  friends  of 
the  family. 

"  Well,  what  does  the  young  man  do,  in  return  for 
all  this  sort  of  kindness  ?  I'll  be  bound  the  Emlyns 
don't  keep  back  anything  from  him — they're  not  that 
sort  of  people.  Things  are  talked  of  freely — their  fam 
ily  connections,  what  they  did  last  year  and  the  year 
before,  what  they're  going  to  do  next  year.  Does  he 
return  the  compliment?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  talks 
enough,  Heaven  knows,  but  he's  exceedingly  care 
ful  not  to  talk  about  himself.  At  the  end  of  ten 
months,  the  people  he's  been  living  with  can't  tell 
you,  though  they  rack  their  memory  to  do  it,  of  a 
single  word  that  he  has  dropped  about  his  home,  his 
people,  his  life  before  he  came  to  them.  They  don't 
know — anything  about  him.  They're  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen,  and  they  don't  pry  into  what  he  doesn't  choose 
to  tell  them.  The  best  they  can  say  is  that  they  found 
him  reticent.  Reticent !  Well,  he's  the  first  Irishman 
I  ever  knew  that  was,  even  about  his  debts,  and  the  bad 
whisky  that  he'd  drunk,  and  the  bad  morals  of  his 
grandmother.  No,  gentlemen,  he  isn't  a  common  Irish 
man,  he's  an  uncommon  Irishman ;  if  he  wasn't,  we'd 
have  had  an  immigration  law  that  would  have  kept  him 
out  a  good  many  years  ago.  This  man,  Irishman  as  he 
was,  knew  how  to  hold  his  tongue.  Here,  at  the  foot  of 
the  gallows,  he  knows  how  to  hold  it  still.  These  kind 
and  hospitable  people  never  got  him  to  betray  a  word, 
in  all  the  familiarity  of  every-day  life.  He  could  make 
jokes,  and  turn  somersaults,  and  quote  Greek  and  Latin, 
and  shoot  and  fish,  and  play  with  the  children,  and 


296  COUNSEL   FOI:   TIIK   I»I:OSI:CJUTION. 

make  love  to  the  widow ;  but  he  couldn't  tell  them 
'iver  a  ward'  about  himself.  They  tell  you  he  was 
amiable.  Of  course.  Why  shouldn't  he  be?  Even 
Sophia  tells  you  he  didn't  bang  the  children  about 
and  complain  of  the  biscuits  when  he  came  to  tea.  I 
shouldn't  have  supposed  he  would.  It  wasn't  in  his 
programme.  lie  was  trying  to  make  people  like  him, 
and  to  get  a  footing.  lie  succeeded  pretty  well. 
They  were  all  infatuated  with  him. 

"  The  whole  testimony  for  character  that  the  defence 
can  bring,  extends  back  a  distance  of  ten  months.  Ten 
months  is  a  good  while  for  some  things,  but  for  others, 
it's  rather  a  po^r  showing.  If  a  man  can't  behave  him 
self  for  ten  months,  it's  a  pity.  If  he  can't  let  you  look 
back  into  his  life  more'n  ten  months,  it's  a  pity, 
greater  still.  The  counsel  for  the  defence  gives  us  dex 
terously  to  understand,  he  is  of  a  very  tine  familj-. 
Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  say  that  he  isn't.  I'm  not  much 
posted  on  the  ways  of  tine  families  on  the  other  side ; 
but  all  I  can  say  is,  if  they're  all  of  'cm  given  to  turn 
ing  somersaults,  climbing  poles,  going  about  barelegged, 
driving  through  the  streets  with  wanning  pans  over 
their  shoulders,  I'm  sure  I'm  glad  they  don't  emigrate 
to  this  country  in  any  greater  numbers.  I'm  just  as 
well  satisfied  they  should  stay  at  home  and  look  after 
their  peat  and  potatoes. 

"  No,  gentlemen.  The  counsel  for  the  defence  assures 
us  that  if  the  prisoner  could  be  induced  to  roll  up  the 
curtain  of  his  past  life,  we  should  see  such  a  Phoenix 
that  we'd  all  drop  down  on  our  knees  and  ask  his  par 
don  for  having  imagined  it  possible  that  he  could  do 
anything  unhandsome.  My  impression  is  that  if  that 
curtain  could  be  got  to  move,  there'd  be  revealed  to  us 


COUNSEL    FOR    THE    FKOSECUTIOtf.  297 

such  a  jail-bird  that  every  man  of  you'd  be  on  his 
feet  quicker' ri  wink,  and  after  him  while  there  was 
breath  enough  to  follow. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  don't  let  that  jail-bird 
slip  through  your  fingers ;  don't  let  his  counsel  have  the 
laugh  on  you ;  he  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  line  words 
don't  butter  any  parsnips.  "We've  had  a  century  of  peace 
in  Sutphen  County.  If  we  want  another,  let's  make 
it  understood  it  isn't  a  healthy  place  for  jail-birds  and 
the  like  of  them.  Let's  show  the  world  (for  this  is 
going  to  be  a  celebrated  case,)  let's  show  the  world  we're 
men  enough  to  do  our  duty,  and  sharp  enough  to  see 
it,  if  we  do  live  on  the  far  end  of  a  sandy  island,  half 
way  out  to  sea.  Sutphen  Comity  wants  no  advice  from 
city  people.  Sutphen  County  can  manage  her  matters 
for  herself.  She  knows  the  law,  and  she  lias  the  pluck 
to  carry  out  its  penalties  when  she  sees  it  must  be  done. 
(Looking  at  his  watch.)  Bless  my  heart,  I've  talked  just 
about  twice  as  long  as  there  was  any  need.  I  suppose 
I  needn't  have  opened  my  lips.  I  guess  you'd  made 
up  your  minds  upon  the  matter  long  before  I  began  to 
talk  to  you  about  it." 

And  he  took  his  seat  as  if  he  were  going  to  open 
the  stove-door  to  put  more  wood  in,  or  had  sat  down 
to  consult  his  account-book  about  the  winter  wheat. 
He  came  in  very  fresh  ;  he  hadn't  laid  a  hair  in  this 
sharp  pull  against  the  city  lawyer.  All  this  told  upon 
the  audience.  My  heart  died  down  within  me.  I 
couldn't  see  the  jurors'  faces.  But  I  had  seen  a  sort 
of  smile  pass  sometimes  over  the  faces  of  the  three 
judges.  I  had  detected  hearty  sympathy  in  the  eyes 
of  all  the  crowd.  Sometimes  I  had  looked  with  terror 
towards  Mr.  Hardinge,  and  had  been  reassured.  He 


298  COUNSEL     FOR     THE     PROSECUTION. 

looked  satisfied  and  undismayed.  Occasionally  he  had 
glanced  ray  way,  as  if  to  steady  me.  Ho  dared  not 
give  me  a  look,  but  his  eye,  as  it  passed  over  mine,  gave 
me  a  world  of  succor. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  court  had  ad 
journed  ;  the  judge's  charge  would  be  given  in  the 
morning — and  then — and  then — the  verdict.  The  peo 
ple  were  loath  to  disperse.  They  stood  about  in  groups 
and  talked  with  eager  gesticulation.  1  could  hear  now 
and  then  a  few  words.  They  all  went  one  way.  But 
they  were  not  the  jury.  But  the  jury  was  made  up 
of  such  as  they. 

How  we  all  lived  through  that  night  I  don't  at  all 
know.  Mi-s.  Emlyn  was  so  restless  that  I  knew  she 
would  be  ill.  The  colonel  looked  like  an  old  man.  It 
was  hard  for  people  who  had  led  such  quiet  and  well- 
guarded  lives.  Even  Sophia  took  to  walking  the  floor, 
and  could  not  lie  down,  or  sleep,  or  eat.  I  believe  I 
was  the  quietest  of  them  all,  and  wrote  the  first  letter 
of  the  day  to  poor  Naomi,  left  behind  in  feverish 
anxiety  at  Happy-go-lucky.  Nobody  had  thought 
about  her  and  ]STed  that  day.  In  fact,  there  had  been 
no  time,  and  no  one  had  had  the  resolution  to  do  any 
thing  that  required  an  effort  of  will  or  memory,  or 
even  of  physical  force. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN   THE  JUDGMENT   OF  TWELVE   MEN. 

"  The  days  could  somehow  drag  themselves 

Like  wounded  worms  along : 
But  I  know  not  how  we  lived  those  nights, 
Save  that  God  made  us  strong." 

Fabcr. 

THE  next  day  opened  raw  and  chill.  The  rosiest 
girls  in  the  court-room  had  blue  lips  and  noses  ; 
the  men  outside  stamped  their  feet  to  keep  warm  ;  the 
horrid  fluted  stove  inside  was  beginning  to  give  out  hot 
air,  a  smell  of  heated  iron,  and  an  abundance  of  coal 
gas.  The  crowd  was  greater  than  ever,  and  more  rest 
less.  Before  the  opening  of  the  court  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  vehement  talking,  though  low,  but  the  volume 
of  it  together  made  a  jarring,  rough  sound  that  tor 
tured  my  ear. 

"When  the  prisoner  was  brought  in  (we  were  seated 
first)  he  passed  directly  in  front  of  us.  He  even  had 
to  step  over  the  bottom  of  my  dress  as  it  lay  upon 
the  floor.  But  he  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  nor  look  at  any 
of  us.  It  seemed  to  me  like  some  horrible  spell  of  en 
chantment  ;  we  had  been  all  these  days  within  the  same 
four  walls,  listening  to  the  same  words,  thinking,  of 
necessity,  many  of  the  same  thoughts  ;  and  not  once 
had  our  eyes  met,  not  once  had  I  heard  the  sound  of 
his  voice ;  the  face  and  figure  that  met  my  eye  were 

[299] 


300  IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN. 

strangely,  awfully  changed,  and  yet  the  same.  It 
seemed  to  me  such  a  combination  of  woe,  and  shame, 
and  horror  had  never  come  into  one  lot  before.  It 
was  like  some  horrible  revel  of  the  fancy  more  than 
like  a  fact;  he  and  I  compelled  to  sit  and  listen,  day 
after  day,  to  the  unveiling  of  our  thoughts,  to  the  tor 
turing  into  diverse  meanings  the  most  sacredly  secret 
words  that  we  had  ever  uttered.  In  the  gray  dullness 
of  this  chill,  real  day,  it  all  seemed  more  unreal  and 
more  hideous  than  ever.  .  .  .  The  crier  had  droned 
out  his  formula,  "  Hear  ye,  hear  ye ;"  and  in  the  pause 
that  followed, 

Mr.  Bell  rose  in  his  place,  and  said,  •'  May  it  please 
your  Honor,  since  the  adjournment  of  the  court  last 
night,  a  most  important  piece  of  evidence  has  come  to 
my  knowledge.  It  was  not  through  any  neglect  of 
those  engaged  in  the  prosecution,  that  it  did  not  come- 
to  light  before.  It  was,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  due  to  the 
connivance  of  the  officer  who  arrested  the  prisoner, 
that  this  important  link  in  the  chain  of  evidence  was 
not  supplied  to  us  before.  The  officer  is,  as  you  remem 
ber,  an  Irishman  ;  his  sympathy  for  his  countryman  was 
greater  than  his  sense  of  duty.  As  this  miscarriage  is 
due  in  no  way  to  the  prosecution,  and  that  the  ends  of 
justice  may  not  be  defeated,  I  ask  permission  to  offer 
this  evidence  now.  I  have  the  man's  affidavit,  and  the 
corroborating  testimony  ready.  It  will  not  detain  you 
many  minutes,  and  I  ask  permission  to  proceed.  The 
importance  of  the  testimony  cannot  be  overstated." 

Mr.  llardinge  started  to  his  feet.  "  In  all  my  legal 
experience,  your  Honor,  I  have  never  heard  a  parallel 
to  this.  It  strikes  me  as  an  outrage  that  cannot  be 
overstated.  I  protest  against  it,  and  deny  that  the 


IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN.  301 

prosecution  have  any  more  right  to  present  a  piece  of 
evidence  after  they  have  summed  up  their  case,  than 
they  would  have  to  present  it  six  months  hence  at  tho 
next  sitting  of  the  court.  My  brother  must  have  de 
vised  this  way  to  make  his  case  immortal ;  one  will 
never  know  when  it  is  ended.  Your  Honor,  let  us 
hear  no  more  of  this,  in  the  name  of  justice,  and  of 
law." 

Mr.  Bell  blushed  a  deep  blush  of  wrath,  and  made 
a  testy  answer.  The  judge,  with  deliberation,  made  a 
pause  in  the  discussion,  and  ordered  the  jury  to  be  taken 
out  of  court.  They  accordingly  h'led  out  into  the  jury 
room,  burning  with  curiosity,  no  doubt ;  and  in  the 
silence  which  followed  the  closing  of  the  door,  Mr. 
Bell  resumed  his  argument.  I  looked  in  vain  for  com 
fort  from  my  friend,  the  lawyer,  now ;  he  forgot  me,  or 
had  none  to  give.  He  was  quite  pale,  and  one  could 
see  all  his  senses  were  enlisted  in  the  light.  You  might 
have  tired  a  cannon  off  beside  him,  and  he  would  not 
have  heard  it  while  his  opponent  was  speaking.  I  was 
so  benumbed  I  could  not  follow  them.  I  don't  know 
what  was  said  on  either  side.  I  only  know  that  after  a 
great  deal,  the  judge  gave  permission  to  the  prosecution 
to  read  the  affidavit  of  the  officer,  and  amid  a  deep 
silence  the  following  was  read  : 

"  I,  Michael  Denny,  being  duly  sworn,  depose  that 
on  the  morning  of  the  third  of  September  I  arrested 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar."  (Then  followed  the  account 
of  his  arrest  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  the 
depot,  and  the  circumstances  of  his  detention,  etc.,  at 
the  police  headquarters  till  the  departure  of  the  next 
train  for  South  Berwick.)  "  It  was  my  duty  to  examine 
him  and  to  make  an  inventory  of  all  the  articles  found 


302  IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN. 

upon  his  person.  I  had  liim  in  the  waiting-room  of 
the  headquarters.  There  was  nobody  else  in  the  room, 
only  the  officer  stationed  outside  the  door.  I  •  knew 
what  the  prisoner  was  accused  of.  I  found  in  the  inner 
pocket  of  his  coat  a  child's  shoe.  I  didn't  believe  he 
did  the  murder.  I  was  sure  of  it  I  knew,  though,  in  a 
minute,  it  would  look  bad,  his  having  the  little  shoe 
about  him.  He  was  standing  by  the  window,  I  was 
away  from  it.  I  said  to  him,  '  That  won't  do  you  any 
good.  Pitch  it  out  of  the  window.'  He  refused  to  do 
it.  I  made  a  move  to  do  it  myself.  It  was  a  high 
window  overlooking  the  street.  He  put  out  his  hand 
to  stop  me.  Just  that  moment  I  heard  a  noise  outside 
the  door,  and  I  drew  back,  and  stooped  down  over  the 
valise,  where  his  dressing  tilings  and  all  were.  I  had 
already  made  the  inventory  of  them,  along  with  the 
other  officer.  It  was  he  that  was  at  the  door  and  now 
came  in,  and  another  man  with  him.  When  I  heard 
them  come  in,  I  pushed  the  little  shoe  down  into  a  sort 
of  pocket  that  there  is  inside  the  bag  ;  it  was  so  little 
it  didn't  seem  to  take  up  any  room;  you  couldn't  feel 
it  if  you  passed  your  hand  over  it,  not  thinking.  The 
other  officers  came  up,  and  we  finished  the  inventory  of 
what  he  had  on.  Then  they  were  detailed  to  take  him 
up  by  the  train.  I  never  thought  of  the  shoe  again.  I 
meant  to  have  taken  it  out  of  the  bag  the  next  time  the 
others  went  across  the  room,  or  anywhere.  But  it 
passed  out  of  my  mind.  I  have  been  very  busy.  I 
never  thought  of  it  again  till  I  heard  the  counsel  yester 
day  talk  about  it  in  his  summing  up.  Then  I  was  uneasy 
for  fear  somebody  would  find  it.  I  made  an  effort  to 
see  the  prisoner.  Last  night  I  got  in  for  a  minute, 
with  an  officer.  He  watched  me  all  the  time,  I  could 


IN    THE    JUDGMENT     OF     TWELVE    MEN.  303 

see.  I  knew  he  distrusted  me  because  I  was  an  Irish 
man.  1  couldn't  get  a  chance  at  the  bag,  but  I  suppose 
he  saw  that  was  -what  I  was  at,  and  afterwards  they 
searched  it,  and  when  they  found  this,  and  saw  it  wasn't 
in  the  inventory  that  I  had  sworn  to,  they  brought  me 
up  about  it.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  Your  Honor,"  said  Mr.  Bell,  when  he  finished  the 
reading  of  the  affidavit  (he  spoke  hurriedly  and  rather 
venomously,  as  if  he  feared  not  being  allowed  to  get 
in  all  he  wanted  without  being  interrupted),  "your 
Honor,  I  have  here  the  shoe  which  the  opposing  coun 
sel  told  us  yesterday  would  identify  the  murderer.  It 
was  found  as  alleged  in  the  affidavit,  in  the  prisoner's 
possession." 

And  he  placed  upon  the  table  before  him  the 
Baby's  little  shoe.  I  gave  a  faint  cry  at  the  sight ;  I 
could  not  help  it.  The  court-room  was  so  still,  it  sound 
ed  from  one  end  to  the  other,  faint  as  it  was. 

"  You  don't  need  other  identification,"  said  the  law 
yer,  "  the  mother  has  told  you,  perhaps  involuntarily. 
But  to  leave  no  doubt,  I  will  show  you  its  mate." 

And  he  signed  to  Sophia,  who  came  forward  and 
put  into  his  hand  the  shoe  that,  within  a  half-hour,  she 
had  taken  from  my  trunk  at  the  hotel.  I  had  seen  the 
deputy  give  her  a  note,  and  had  seen  her  leave  the 
court-room,  but  had  been  too  engrossed  to  wonder  why 
she  went. 

"  I  ask,"  said  the  counsel,  "  that  these  be  put  in  evi 
dence  ;  that  the  case  be  opened  to  admit  testimony  of 
which  we  were  defrauded  by  the  dishonesty  of  the  pris 
oner's  countryman." 

He  laid  the  little  shoes  together  on  the  table,  then 
lifted  them  to  bring  them  nearer  to  the  judges'  range 


301-  IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN1. 

of  vision.  He  seemed  to  gloat  over  them.  They  were 
little  slippers,  made  with  a  strap  that  buttoned  round 
the  ankle.  They  were  worn  and  creased,  and  so  very 
little.  I  put  my  hands  up  before  my  face.  It  killed 
me  to  look  at  them,  and  to  see  him  touch  them. 

"  Your  Honor,"  said  Mr.  Hardinge,  in  a  cold,  hard 
voice.  "  don't  let  us  degenerate  into  melodrama.  We 
are  in  a  court  of  law.  I  contend  the  absolute  impossi 
bility  of  admitting  any  evidence,  no  matter  of  what 
force  or  pertinence.  I  have  already  proved  this  to  your 
Honor.  I  now  ask  you  to  throw  out  this  testimony  as 
utterly  impertinent  and  worthless.  If  it  had  come  in 
the  regular  course  of  the  case,  no  one  would  have  given 
it  a  second  thought.  It  proves  nothing.  It  tits  in  to 
nothing.  When  I  said  yesterday,  that  when  those 
articles  were  found  we  should  have  found  the  murderer, 
I  meant,  and  the  counsel  knows  I  meant,  when  wo 
found  them  in  the  possession  of  a  burglar.  Your 
Honor,  this  man  is  not  a  burglar ;  the  prosecution 
doesn't  present  him  as  a  burglar.  His  having  that 
shoe  doesn't  prove  anything  but  his  affection  for  the 
little  child  that  wore  it.  We  know  lie  had  been  in  the 
room.  We  don't  gain  anything  by  this  proof  that  he 
had  been  there." 

"  We  gain  one  thing,"  said  the  senior  counsel,  ris 
ing  to  his  feet.  "  We  take  a  nail  out  of  that  tramp's 
coffin,  and  put  it  in  the  prisoner's.  If  we  could  only 
set  that  foot-stool  back  in  its  place  now,  by  natural 
means,  I  think  we  could  screw  down  the  lid." 

"  Your  Honor,  this  is  no  time  for  trifling  ;  human 
life  is  a  thing  too  sacred.  Don't  allow  this  to  con 
tinue." 

"  I  only  ask,"    said  the  senior  counsel,  quite  uu-. 


IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN.  005 

daunted,  "that  ray  brother's  words  have  full  force  with 
you  now.  I  only  desire  to  recall  to  your  mind,  that 
we  heard  in  court  yesterday  from  him  the  unequivo 
cal  statement  that  when  that  toy  and  that  shoe  should 
be  found,  then  and  there  the  murderer  would  be  found. 
If  it  was  law  yesterday,  it  must  be  law  to-day.  I  can't 
turn  and  twist  about  so  quick  as  all  that.  I  believed 
him  yesterday.  I  keep  on  believing  him.  If  it  doesn't 
prove  anything  new  about  the  prisoner,  it  proves  some 
thing  about  that  man  of  straw,  the  tramp.  It  proves, 
your  Honor,  that  he  didn't  exist,  and  that  Bernard 
Macnally  is  the  man  we're  looking  for,  if  anybody  had 
any  doubt  before." 

"  Your  Honor,"  cried  Mr.  Ilardinge,  "  don't  let  a 
man  be  hung  for  the  zeal  of  a  blundering  officer,  arid 
for  the  chance  word  of  his  counsel !  I  plead  with  you 
to  sift  these  facts  before  they  reach  the  jury ;  to  re 
member  the  inflammable  nature  of  human  prejudice ; 
to  think  of  the  awful  burden  that  would  lie  upon  those 
who  had  departed  from  the  rigid  impartiality  of  the 
law,  in  such  a  critical  moment  as  this.  If,  guilty,  he 
should  escape,  the  law,  and  not  the  administrators  of  it, 
would  have  to  bear  the  blame.  If,  innocent,  he  should 
be  saved,  the  law  could  alone  be  lauded.  It  has  passed 
out  of  our  hands;  for  or  against,  we  have  done  our 
.best ;  all  human  effort  is  sealed  now  forever ;  if  that 
testimony  is  admitted,  the  law  is  violated.  A  trust  has 
been  betrayed ;  the  divine  character  of  justice  has  been 
sullied.  We  are  but  human  ;  we  can  see  but  a  little 
way.  "We  must  work  within  narrow  rules,  and  then 
trust  that  they  will  develop  the  Divine  "Will  and  order. 
1  would  never  stand  at  the  bar,  to  plead  for  or  against 
a  fellow-mortal's  life,  if  I  did  not  believe  in  Divine 


300  IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN. 

Justice  working  through  human  agency,  humble  and 
imperfect,  but  struggling  on  through  generations  of 
honest  effort,  to  break  a  channel  for  the  truth.  To  me, 
the  law  is  sacred  ;  break  it  lightly  who  dare  !  I  protest 
with  all  my  soul  against  this  wanton  outrage  of  it." 

And  he  sat  down,  almost  as  pale  as  the  prisoner  be 
side  him.  My  head  swam.  I  could  not  follow  them  ; 
I  did  not  know  what  they  were  talking  about.  I  knew 
it  was  the  crisis.  Once  or  twice  I  saw  the  prisoner  lift 
his  head  and  look  at  the  judges ;  he  did  not  seem  more 
white  and  self-controlled  than  before,  but  I  thought  his 
eye  shone  with  an  intenser  light.  Even  the  children  in 
the  crowd  knew  it  was  a  crisis;  there  was  a  stillness 
that  frightened  me.  It  seemed  endless — the  fire  of 
those  opposing  tongues,  on  which  the  crowd  hung 
breathless.  I  had  lost  the  power  to  follow  them  ;  they 
were  in  the  region  of  the  law,  pure  and  simple,  now, 
and  the  words  were  unfamiliar,  and  my  brain  had  been 
on  the  strain  too  long.  At  last  there  was  a  pause  ;  the 
judge  said  something;  there  was  a  hush;  then  the 
deputy  moved  forward,  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
jury -room.  The  crowd,  bewildered  by  the  technicali 
ties  of  the  discussion,  did  not  understand  any  more  than 
I  at  first ;  but,  gradually,  a  low,  angry  murmur  spread 
among  them,  as  the  jury  tiled  back  into  their  places. 

"What  is  it?"  I  said,  catching  Colonel  Emlyn's 
arm,  who  stood  beside  me. 

"  They  don't  like  it,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  like  what  ?     I  cannot  understand." 

"  The  judge  has  thrown  out  the  evidence,"  he  an 
swered.  "  lie  has  sent  for  the  jury ;  he  is  going  to 
charge  them  now." 

That  gave  me  new  life ;   but  fears   began   again. 


IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN. 

The  judge  had  done  his  duty  in  the  face  of  popular 
clamor.  Would  it  be  possible  for  him  to  keep  on 
through  all,  with  no  concession  to  prejudice  ?  He  had 
had  the  law  to  sustain  him  in  throwing  out  the  testi 
mony  which,  it  was  plain  to  see,  was  worth  nothing,  as 
evidence,  but  everything,  in  its  influence  on  the  jury. 
It  was  another  question,  whether  he  would  dare  to 
throw  the  weight  of  his  influence  for  the  prisoner, 
when  it  carne  to  matters  outside  the  stern  walls  of  the 
law. 

He  was  a  plain  speaker ;  his  use  of  language  was 
rather  limited,  but  he  had  a  sound  legal  mind,  and  a 
way  of  putting  things  that  was  impressive.  If  he  had 
had  more  words,  he  might  have  got  bewildered  among 
them,  for  it  was  evident  he  was  not  a  ready  speaker. 
But  his  very  poverty  of  language  was  forcible.  His 
ideas  stood  out  like  Greek  statues,  undraped.  His 
charge  was  throughout  impressive ;  intelligible  to  the 
meanest  understanding,  respectable  to  the  highest.  It 
was  impartial,  in  a  certain  way :  he  reviewed  the  case 
critically ;  when  he  got  through  with  that  part,  you 
would  have  been  at  a  loss  to  say  to  which  side  he  leaned. 
But  the  great  strength  of  his  speech  was  the  injunction 
to  them  to  beware  of  prejudice,  to  remember,  the  rend 
ering  of  the  verdict  according  to  the  law  was  all  that 
they  were  answerable  for.  It  was  not  whether  they 
believed  the  prisoner  guilty  or  not ;  it  was,  whether  the 
evidence  that  had  been  placed  before  them  proved  it. 
He  warned  them  not  to  add  one  jot  or  tittle  to  it  in  their 
minds  to  fill  up  any  space  left  vacant.  Did  that  evi 
dence  show  that  Bernard  Macnally  had  killed  the  chil 
dren,  or  did  it  leave  it  an  open  question  ?  If  it  left  it 
an  open  question  there  was  but  one  thing  for  them  to  do. 


IN    TIIE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE     MKN. 

His  few  words  to  them  on  the  solemnity  of  their 
duty  were  almost  startling  ;  the  language  was  so  simple, 
the  truth  so  strong.  lie  dismissed  them  to  their  delib 
eration  with  a  wish  that  they  might,  one  and  all,  be 
guided  by  that  Divine  Wisdom  which  was  given  liberal 
ly  and  without  upbraiding  to  those  that  asked  for  it. 
The  words  sounded  very  real. 

Then  lx?gan  the  time  of  waiting  which  I  had  so 
dreaded.  An  irresistible  irritability  took  possession  of 
me.  I  could  not  bear  a  word,  a  sound.  I  would  not 
let  them  speak  to  me  ;  I  would  not  go  out  into  the  ante 
room.  In  fact,  I  had  such  a  dread  of  losing  control  of 
myself,  that  I  feared  any  physical  effort.  The  lawyers 
went  out ;  the  prisoner  went  away  with  an  officer  and 
his  counsel.  The  judges  withdrew  into  another  room. 
The  people  on  the  benches  beyond  us  fell  into  chatter 
and  restlessness,  doors  opened  and  shut.  A  young 
woman  near  me  ate  an  apple  ;  the  smell  of  it  made  me 
ill;  the  sound  of  her  crunching  teeth  made  me  almost  mad. 
She  had  cheeks  as  red  as  her  apple.  Two  or  three  young 
men  came  and  sat  on  the  back  of  the  bench  before  her. 
They  talked  and  laughed,  and  alluded  to  the  trial,  and 
tilted  themselves  backward  and  forward,  and  she  told 
them  to  "  Behave,"  and  to  "  Stop  their  nawnsense." 

The  cold,  raw  wind  blew  in  in  gusts  when  the  doors 
were  opened.  A  tree  close  up  by  the  window  near  us  bent 
and  tapped  against  the  pane,  and  moaned  and  rustled,  and 
tapped  again.  Two  men  leaned  against  the  railing  just 
behind  Macnally's  empty  chair.  They  looked  at  it,  and 
seemed  to  hold  it  in  abhorrence.  They  talked  in  low, 
angry  tones ;  they  said  something  about  lynch  law,  and 
the  rights  of  communities  to  protect  themselves.  Then 
the  stove.  How  shall  1  ever  forget  it,  and  its  horrible 


IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN.  309 

heat  and  gas.  Sophia  went  away,  and  came  back  with 
something  mixed  in  a  glass,  and  held  it  to  my  lips,  and 
bade  me  drink  it.  I  hated  her  and  it,  but  I  drank  it. 
I  suppose  it  was  something  soothing,  for  I  felt  better 
and  quieter  in  a  little  while. 

1  have  no  idea  about  the  length  of  time.  It  may 
have  been  one  hour,  it  may  have  been  three,  when  there 
was  a  stir,  a  murmur,  an  excitement.  People  all  came 
back  to  their  places.  The  jury  came  back  into  their 
seats,  the  three  judges  resumed  theirs.  Amidst  a  pause, 
which  seemed  to  me  interminable,  the  foreman  rose, 
and  addressing  the  judge,  said  they  had  not  agreed 
on  one  or  two  points,  and  had  come  back  for  further 
instructions.  He  indicated  the  evidence  which  they 
needed  to  hear  again.  The  clerk  was  ordered  to  read 
what  I  had  testified  about  the  opening  and  shutting 
of  the  gate,  about  the  shutting  of  the  stair  door  by 
Sophia,  and  her  exclamation  of  surprise  that  it  was 
open.  All  of  my  testimony  was  read  upon  this  subject. 
The  clerk  read  it  in  a  perfunctory  way,  in  a  loud  voice, 
and  with  no  expression.  It  might  have  been  a  bill  of 
lading.  It  gave  me  such  a  strange  sensation  to  hear  my 
words  hurtling  about  my  ears  in  such  a  fashion.  But 
as  to  strange  sensations,  one  might  think  I  had  exhaust 
ed  them  before  this  time.  The  jury  expressed  them 
selves  satisfied,  and  were  conducted  out  again.  The 
people  all  relaxed  their  rigidity  of  quiet,  and  began  to 
move  and  talk  a  little. 

"  It  all  comes  down  to  that,"  said  a  man  outside  the 
railing  near  me.  "  I  knew  it  would.  If  they  believe 
her  testimony  they'll  clear  him.  If  they  don't,  he's 
bound  to  swing.  There's  no  getting  out  of  that. 
They've  got  to  convict  him,  it's  as  clear  as  day." 


310  IX     THE     JUDGMENT     OF    TWELVE    MEN. 

"  Her  testimony  won't  go  for  that,  with  the 
jury,"  said  his  companion,  taking  out  his  knife  and 
pricking  a  sharp  line  along  the  bench  before  him. 
"  What's-his-name  showed  all  that  up.  You'll  see.  He 
hasn't  got  a  chance." 

"  What  did  they  come  in,  and  have  the  testimony 
all  read  over  to  them,  if  they  didn't  believe  it  ?" 

"Oh,  some  dough-head  couldn't  remember  what 
she  said,  that's  all.  Blamed  if  I  remembered  it  myself, 
hearin'  such  a  lot  of  stuff." 

Macnally  and  his  counsel  did  not  go  away  again, 
nor  the  judges.  There  was  a  general  feeling  that  the 
decision  would  not  be  long  deferred.  Mr.  llardingc's 
face  was  set  and  anxious.  He  did  not  attempt  to  look 
at  or  reassure  me.  The  lawyers  for  the  prosecution  were 
whispering  together  in  a  confident  manner.  The  judge 
looked  stolid,  his  assistants  solemn.  Every  time  there 
was  a  sound  in  the  direction  of  the  jury-room,  the  turn 
ing  of  a  door-knob,  or  the  pushing  back  of  a  chair,  there 
was  a  sensation  in  the  crowd,  and  then  a  murmur  of 
disappointment.  Mrs.  Emlyn  had  gone  out  long  before, 
utterly  unable  to  bear  it.  The  colonel  sat  faithfully 
beside  me.  Sophia,  whose  face  I  never  looked  at  now, 
sat  on  the  other  side,  rigidly  still.  I  had  just  one  feel 
ing  ;  good  or  bad,  I  wished  they  would  give  their  ver 
dict  now.  I  could  not  bear  the  strain  another  minute. 
It  seemed  to  me  the  difference  between  life  and  death 
had  dwindled  into  something  that  you  couldn't  see.  I 
didn't  care.  I  only  asked  a  certainty. 

It  was  not  long — I  don't  believe  more  than  half  an 
hour,  when  a  stir  from  the  direction  of  the  jury-room 
showed  that  the  moment  had  come.  The  alert  deputy 
was  seen  opening  the  door,  and  putting  back  chairs  and 


IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN.  311 

benches  before  the  coming  of  the  dealers-out  of  life  or 
death.  I  don't  suppose  there  was  a  pulse  in  all  that 
densely-packed  assembly  that  didn't  throb  quicker  at 
the  thought  of  what  we  had  arrived  at ;  slow  and  old, 
quick  and  young — each  one  was  stirred  on  beyond  its 
usual  beat  by  the  awful  possibilities  to  which  we  had 
come  up. 

The  jury  came  in,  with  stumbling,  heavy  boots  on 
the  bare  floor.  When  they  had  taken  their  places,  the 
clerk  stood  up,  and,  in  his  loud,  unmeaning  voice, 
called  out  their  names,  to  which,  in  various  tones, 
they  answered.  Then,  in  the  same  mechanical  voice, 
he  asked  if  they  had  agreed  upon  their  verdict.  The 
foreman  said  : 

"  We  have." 

A  dark  shadow  fell  upon  the  face  of  Hardinge.  I 
suppose  his  best  hope  had  been  a  disagreement.  The 
prisoner  was  ordered  to  stand  up.  He  stood  up,  firm 
and  straight,  and  lifted  a  steady  glance  to  the  face  of 
the  man  whose  next  breath  would  slay  or  save  him. 
Merciful  Heavens !  how  do  people  live  through  mo 
ments  such  as  these  ? 

The  clerk  said,  as  if  he  were  reading  off  a  chattel 
mortgage : 

"  Do  you  find  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  or  not 
guilty  of  the  crime  for  which  he  is  arraigned  f 

"  Not  guilty  !"  said  the  foreman,  standing  up. 

An  inky  black  tide  seemed  swirling  over  me.  I 
put  out  my  hand  to  save  myself  from  some  unknown 
horror,  and  sank  senseless  to  the  floor. 

When  I  next  became  conscious,  I  was  lying  on  the 
bed  in  the  room  we  had  occupied  at  the  hotel.  The 


312  IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN. 

first  few  moments  were  very  confused  and  painful,  but 
I  gradually  recalled  what  had  passed,  and  gathered  my 
wits  together.  I  felt  smothered  and  hot ;  the  room 
was  dark — it  was  night ;  there  was  only  a  faint  light 
burning  by  my  bed.  The  smell  of  kerosene  irritated 
me ;  the  weight  of  the  blankets  oppressed  me.  I 
pushed  them  back.  Sophia,  who  was  sitting  some 
where  in  the  shadow,  watching  me,  came  forward.  I 
told  her  I  wanted  some  water,  and  she  gave  it  to  me. 
Then  I  said : 

"  Where  is  Colonel  Emlyn  ?  Ask  him  to  come 
here." 

"  It  is  late,"  she  said,  evasively.  "  Wait  till  morn 
ing." 

I  had  heard  steps  in  the  next  room.  I  knew  that 
lie  was  there. 

"  I  want  him  now,"  I  said. 

She  went  to  the  door  and  spoke,  and  he  came  in, 
looking  anxiously  at  me. 

"  You  may  go  away,"  I  said  to  Sophia.  "  I  want 
to  speak  to  him  alone'." 

She  exchanged  a  look  with  him,  and  went  away 
into  the  next  room,  not  shutting  the  door.  I  motioned 
him  to  shut  it,  which  he  did,  and  then  came  back  and 
stood  beside  the  bed,  looking  down  on  me  with  solici 
tude  and  pity  on  his  worn  face. 

"  I  don't  remember  everything,"  I  said,  pushing  my 
hand  behind  the  pillow,  and  trying  to  raise  my  head. 
"  Is  he  cleared  2" 

He  nodded.     "  Yes,  lie's  safe." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.    "  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  He  went  right  away  with  Hardinge." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  ?" 


IN    THE    JUDGMENT    OF    TWELVE    MEN.  313 

"  No.  I  hadn't  a  chance ;  I  was  taking  care  of  you. 
You — were  ill,  you  know." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Eralyn  ?" 

"'No,  she  had  gone  out  of  the  court-room.  She  was 
here  at  the  hotel." 

"  Did  anybody  speak  to  him  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  There  wasn't  any  time,  you 
see,  Hardinge  hurried  him  off.  He  didn't  think  that 
it  would  be  wise  to  run  the  risk  of  any  trouble.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  feeling  about  the  verdict." 

"  He  will  be  going  away — to  Europe.  I  must  see 
him.  Colonel  Emlyn,  you  will  have  to  send  for  him." 

He  gave  me  a  look  of  pity.  "  Don't  bother  about 
anything  now,"  he  said.  "  You  are  too  ill." 

"  I  am  not  too  ill.  I  must  see  him  before  he  sails. 
You  must  go  and  send  a  telegram  at  once." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  he  said,  uncomfortably. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  too  late  ?  Isn't  the  office  open  ? 
Take  it  to  them,  then,  and  make  them  promise  to  send 
it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"  It's  too  late,  my  poor  child.  He's — he's  gone,  you 
know." 

"  Gone  ?  Yes,  I  know,  from  here — he  went  this 
afternoon  after  the  verdict ;  but  you  can  catch  him ; 
telegraph  Hardinge — everybody — don't  lose  a  minute 
— tell  him  I  want  him — he  must  come — " 

"  My  child,  that  was  two  days  ago ;  he  sailed  yester 
day  morning — I  had  a  line  from  Hardinge — 

That  black  tide  was  crawling  over  me  again.  I  put 
out  my  hands  to  save  myself  from  the  dark  unutterable 
suffocation,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  merciful  oblivion. 
14 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  TINKLE   OF   A   TINY    BELL. 


Than  a  forsaken  bird's  nest,  filled  with  snow." 

Wordsworth. 
"Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds, 

Which  chased  the  day  like  a  bleeding  deer, 
And  it  limped  and  stumbled  with  many  wounds, 
Through  the  nightly  dells  of  the  desert  year." 

Shelley. 

IT  was  two  years  later.  Sophia  and  I  were  on  a  rail 
way  train,  drawing  near,  for  the  first  time  since  those 
sad  days,  to  the  great  city  which  had  been  our  home 
before  we  went  to  spend  that  summer  at  South  Berwick. 
The  two  years  had  been  passed  in  a  little  Canadian  vil 
lage,  where  Sophia  had  relations.  When  I  began  to 
recover  from  the  fever  which  succeeded  the  days 
of  the  trial,  it  was  necessary  to  take  me  somewhere, 
the  farther  away  the  better,  the  doctors  said  ;  the  greater 
change  the  better.  The  Emlyus  would  gladly  have 
kept  me  with  them  ;  their  kindness  was  unbounded. 
But  I  felt  too  stricken  to  bear  the  touch  of  even  such 
tender  hands  as  theirs.  I  was  out  of  place  where  there 
was  life  and  youth  and  hope.  I  knew  it  was  not  right 
to  darken  any  household  with  my  sorrow ;  my  good 
friends  had  already  borne  too  much  of  it.  When  Sophia, 
one  day,  spoke  of  this  far-away  little  village,  where  her 
L314J 


THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TINY    BELL.  315 

relations  lived,  I  grasped  at  it.  It  seemed  to  me  more 
like  the  rest  of  the  grave  than  anything  that  I  could  get 
this  side  of  it. 

"  Let  us  go  there,"  I  said.  i 

The  quiet,  the  utter  seclusion,  the  unfamiliarity  of 
everything,  the  keen,  bracing  cold  of  the  climate,  all 
combined  to  heal  me  of  my  wounds.  At  the  end  of 
two  years  I  was  alive,  I  was  sane,  I  was  well.  Sophia 
had  grown  restless  under  the  long  quiet.  I  did  not 
want  to  be  selfish.  I  told  her  we  would  come  back. 

During  the  t\Vo  years,  the  Ernlyns  had  gone  abroad. 
At  first  I  got  frequent  letters  from  them,  but  latterly 
they  had  written  very  little.  Colonel  Emlyn's  health  had 
been  a  cause  of  great  anxiety  to  his  wife.  The  excite 
ment  of  the  events  of  that  last  month  at  South  Berwick 
had  been  very  severe  upon  him  at  his  age.  He  had  never 
been  willing  to  return  to  Happy-go-lucky  ;  the  place  was 
shut  up  and  offered  for  sale.  He  was  restless,  and  suffered 
from  loss  of  memory,  and  from  sleeplessness ;  I  could 
see  Mrs.  Emlyri  felt  a  sword  was  hanging  over  her.  I 
did  not  write  often  to  them,  for  two  causes;  first,  that  it 
was  acute  pain  to  me  to  write  a  letter,  and  secondly, 
that  I  thought  it  really  kinder  to  let  all  that  was  con 
nected  with  that  dreadful  time  die  out,  and  not  to  bring 
myself  up  at  all  to  him  in  his  present  state. 

And  about  Macnally.  Colonel  Emlyn  had  been 
very  kind  in  trying  to  satisfy  my  desire  of  getting  a  let 
ter  to  him.  But  after  many  weeks,  my  poor  letter  had 
come  back  to  me.  No  trace  of  him  could  be  found.  In  the 
hurried  parting  between  him  and-llardinge,  only  some 
vague  promise  had  been  made  of  writing ;  he  had  given 
no  address.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should 
write  to  the  Emlyns.  Colonel  Emlyn,  with  all  his  de- 


316  THE    TINKLE     OF     A    TINT    BELL. 

sire  to  save  him,  had  had  but  one  conviction  from  the 
first ;  and  he  was  too  honest  a  man  to  be  able  to  hide 
it.  That  he  had  not  given  him  his  hand  when  the  ver 
dict  was  pronounced  ;  that  he  had  not  in  the  time  that 
intervened  between  that  and  his  sailing,  made  some  ex 
pression  of  friendship  or  congratulation,  was  enough  to 
account  for  his  silence  towards  them.  No  doubt  he 
was  convinced  that  there  was  no  dissenting  voice ;  that 
no  one  believed  in  his  innocence  of  all  who  had  been 
his  friends  that  summer.  But  that  he  had  no  word  for  his 
counsel,  who,  humanly  speaking,  had  saved  his  life,  was 
less  accountable.  The  expenses  of  his  trial  had  all  been 
met  by  the  salary  which  he  had  not  touched  during  his 
ten  months  at  Colonel  Emlyn's,  and  by  remittances, 
which,  no  doubt,  he  had  received  in  the  last  letters  which 
had  come,  and  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  me.  There 
was  no  obligation  upon  him  to  write,  but  the  sense  of 
gratitude  to  one  who  had  spent  so  much  effort  in  his 
service. 

"  I  own,"  wrote  Mr.  Hardinge,  in  answer  to  Colonel 
Emlyn's  inquiries,  "  I  did  look  for  a  Hue  of  acknowl 
edgment  from  him  when  he  should  have  reached 
home,  but  none  has  ever  come.  In  fact,  my  dear  sir,  I 
don't,  at  this  moment,  know  whom  I  defended,  any  more 
than  if  I  had  done  it  in  a  dream.  But  for  the  strong 
impression  that  the  man  made  on  me,  I  should  begin 
to  feel  some  doubt  of  him." 

For  me,  there  was  but  one  conviction — that  he  was 
no  longer  living. 

It  was  a  cloudy  day  in  late  October ;  the  very  last 
day  of  the  month.  Our  long  journey  was  drawing 
near  its  end ;  an  hour  more,  and  we  should  be  in  the 
city.  Sophia  was  in  the  seat  beside  me.  I  was  next 


THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TINY    BELL.  317 

the  window,  looking  out  over  the  broad  river,  now 
gray  with  the  approach  of  evening.  The  jar  and  noise 
of  the  cars  was  considerable,  but  not  enough  to  make  it 
difficult  to  talk  with  the  person  sitting  next  you.  I  had 
something  to  say  to  Sophia.  I  had  been  thinking  of  it 
for  a  great  many  days,  and  had  chosen  this  moment 
for  the  saying  of  it.  It  was  easier  to  say  what  I  wanted 
to  in  this  place,  than  in  a  quiet  room.  For  one  thing, 
we  need  not  look  at  each  other  as  we  talked,  and  there 
was  no  possibility  of  showing  agitation  on  either  side. 
(It  is  necessary  to  explain  that  Sophia  and  I  never  al 
luded,  in  any  manner,  to  the  cause  of  the  desolation  of 
our  lives.  After  the  children's  clothes  were  packed 
away,  and  their  books  and  toys  put  out  of  sight,  there 
was  never  a  word  uttered  between  us  that  would  have 
indicated  to  any  stranger  the  fact  that  they  ever  had 
existed.  Her  wound  was  only  less  grievous  than  mine. 
It  was  an  instinct  of  self-preservation  that  kept  us 
silent.  If  we  were  to  live,  that  was  the  only  way  to  do 
it.  We  must  make  a  new  routine  for  ourselves,  and 
keep  to  it.  It  was  the  only  chance  of  keeping  from 
despair.)  So  it  was  with  great  effort  that  I  spoke, 
looking  out  of  the  window  as  I  did  it. 

"  You  will  be  very  busy  to-morrow,  I  suppose,  set 
tling  the  rooms,  and  all  that.  I  never  was  much  use 
in  doing  that.  I'm  going  to  take  the  chance,  and  go 
away  for  a  day  and  night." 

She  gave  a  start,  and  said : 

"  Go  away  ?" 

I  scarcely  had  been  out  of  her  sight  an  hour  since  I 
had  been  all  she  had  to  care  for.  No  wonder  that  she 
started. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  as  firmly  as  I  could,  "  I  want  to  go 


318  THE    TINKLE     OF     A    TINY     BELL. 

to  South  Berwick.  It  has  been  in  my  mind  a  great 
while.  This  is  the  best  time." 

"  You'd  better  wait  till  you're  rested  from  this  jour 
ney,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  "  before  you  take  another." 

"No;  I  am  well  enough  for  it.  I  will  go  in  the 
morning.  There  is  a  train  at  eight  o'clock.  I  looked 
it  out  in  the  paper  yesterday." 

There  was  not  another  word  said.  We  sat  in  utter 
silence,  side  by  side,  as  the  cars  rushed  on  into  the  twi 
light.  The  plan,  which  I  had  told  her  so  quietly,  had 
been  maturing  in  my  mind  for  weeks ;  it  scarcely  ever 
left  my  thoughts.  The  desire  to  see  the  children's 
graves  before  another  snow  fell  on  them,  had  grown  so 
strong,  that  I  felt  as  if  she  must  have  known  it,  in  our 
daily  life  together.  She  had  expressed  no  emotion ; 
but  her  face,  when  we  came  out  into  the  light  of  the 
depot,  after  leaving  the  cars,  showed  the  traces  of 
strong  agitation.  Sophia's  face  had  grown  older  in 
these  two  years.  It  had  come  to  go  well  with  her 
prematurely-whitened  hair.  She  looked  a  woman  of 
fifty,  who  had  seen  trouble,  and  whose  heart  had  known 
liow  to  ache.  She  was  more  silent  now,  and  her  silence 
gave  a  deep  look  to  her  eyes.  Those  still  vehement 
feelings  of  hers  left  a  mark  upon  her  face — the  more 
that  they  found  no  vent  from  her  lips. 

She  prepared  everything  for  my  journey,  and  was 
up  in  the  gray  dawn  to  get  my  breakfast  for  me  and  to 
see  me  go,  but  no  further  word  was  spoken  between  us 
of  the  object  of  my  going. 

The  day  was  raw  and  cheerless.  A  bleak  wind  was 
blowing  and  the  clouds  were  racing  over  the  sky,  sky 
and  clouds  all  gray  and  leaden.  All  around  the  horizon 
there  was  a  streak  of  light  as  if  a  great  chalice  of  gloom 


THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TESTY    BELL.  819 

were  being  let  down  slowly  over  the  earth  and  the  light 
being  gradually  shut  out.  The  men  in  the  cars  but 
toned  up  their  coats,  and  huddled  round  the  stove  and 
pointed  out,  and  said,  that  looked  like  snow,  and  "Win 
ter  had  set  in  smart  and  early.  A  snow-storm  on  the 
first  day  of  November  was  a  thing  that  didn't  often 
happen."  I  thought  of  the  little  graves,  with  the  grass 
and  weeds  of  two  years  on  them,  hidden  from  my  sight 
by  the  falling  snow.  Ah !  The  dreariness  of  that  long, 
cold  ride !  The  dreariness  of  the  landscape,  the  dreari 
ness  of  the  sky ! 

"When  I  got  out  of  the  cars  at  South  Berwick  a 
keen  and  cruel  wind  was  blowing.  I  could  hardly 
stand  up  against  it.  The  snow,  which  had  begun  to  fall, 
struck  my  face  with  sharp  points.  I  could  not  walk  to 
where  I  wanted  to  go  in  this  state  of  weather.  There 
was  a  man  there  with  a  wretched,  covered  vehicle, 
which  I  hired,  and  told  him  where  to  drive  me.  It 
seemed  to  me  so  hard  and  cruel  that  I  could  not  go 
alone ;  that  this  lean,  curious  man  should  have  to  go  with 
me,  and  see  for  what  I  went.  There  are  some  disappoint 
ments  that  have  peculiarly  sharp  stings,  and  I  havef 
always  noticed  that  such  as  these  are  the  hardest  to 
bear  patiently.  I  had  borne  greater  things  without 
murmuring ;  to-day,  the  cruel  weather,  the  hard  grind 
ing  necessity  that  some  one  should  witness  my  first  visit 
to  the  graves  of  my  children,  the  total  difference  be 
tween  what  the  visit  was  now  and  what  I  had  so  long 
dreamed  it  would  be,  gave  me  a  stronger  sense  of  rebel 
lion  than  perhaps  I  had  ever  felt  before.  .  . 

The  man  behaved  better  than  1  thought  he  would ; 
lie  drove  his  rough-coated,  big  horse  up  and  down  the 
road  a  little  distance  off,  and  did  not  seem  to  look  at 


320  THE     TINKLE    OF     A    TINY     BELL. 

me,  but  beat  his  long  arms  across  his  breast  and  engaged 
himself  in  keeping  warm. 

"When  I  got  in  the  wagon  again  he  drove  me  towards 
the  village.  I  asked  him  whether  any  one  lived  in  the 
Detmold  farm-house.  Is'o  one,  he  said.  It  has  never 
been  rented  since — since  the  folks  that  had  all  that 
trouble  moved  out  of  it  two  years  ago  last  September. 
I  think  it  began  to  dawn  on  him  who  I  was.  I  told 
him  if  he  knew  who  had  the  key  to  drive  to  the  place 
and  get  it,  I  wanted  to  go  in  the  house.  He  knew  ;  and 
we  drove  to  the  house  and  I  held  the  reins  over  the 
back  of  the  heavy  winter-coated  horse,  while  he  went  in 
and  got  the  key. 

While  the  wind  and  the  sharp  hail  and  snow  were 
beating  in  my  face,  we  drew  up  to  the  door  of  my 
poor,  desolate  little  home.  I  stood  by  the  gate, 
benumbed  with  the  cold,  blinded  by  the  sleet ;  I  could 
scarcely  see  where  1  went.  I  remembered  that  I  didn't 
want  the  man  to  stay  ;  1  took  out  my  purse  to  pay  him. 
"With  a  strange  rush  of  anguish  there  came  over  me  the 
recollection  of  that  bright  May  noontide  when  wo  first 
drove  up  to  our  new  home,  and  when  I  had  eagerly  gone 
in,  with  the  children  at  my  side,  forgetting  to  pay  the 
man  for  bringing  us,  till  recalled  by  Sophia.  I  counted 
out  the  change.  The  man  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and,  re 
mounting  the  old  carriage,  trundled  away  in  it. 

The  gate  latch  was  so  rusty,  I  could  scarcely  move  it ; 
the  path  so  overgrown,  I  stumbled  through  it.  The 
balcony  steps  were  unsteady  ;  one  or  two  shingles  were 
loosened  from  the  front  of  the  house.  The  vines  had 
trailed  over  the  lloor  of  the  balcony,  and  a  heap  of  dead 
leaves  were  blown  up  into  a  corner  where  the  trumpet 
creeper  made  a  shelter  for  them.  On  the  railing  of  the 


THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TINT    BELL.  321 

balcony  in  front,  there  hung  a  little  board,  on  which  a  bill, 
"  For  sale,"  or  perhaps  "  To  let,"  had  been  nailed.  What 
ever  it  was,  many  storms  and  winds  had  defaced  it,  and  no 
one  could  read  now  what  it  announced.  "When  I  bent 
down  to  try  to  fit  the  key  to  the  lock,  my  hands  shook  so 
from  cold  and  agitation  that  I  could  scarcely  do  it.  The 
snow,  which  was  coming  in  gusts,  sometimes  ceasing  alto 
gether,  sometimes  driving  through  the  air  in  thick  drifts, 
stopped  a  moment  now,  and  I  could  see,  and  opened 
the  door  and  entered.  If  there  had  been  a  coldness 
that  drove  the  blood  to  my  heart,  outside,  there  was  a 
chill  that  seemed  to  congeal  it  there,  inside.  "Why  had 
I  come  ?  I  asked  myself.  The  shut-up  rooms  felt  like 
vaults ;  dust  and  desolation  was  spread  over  all  the 
familiar  place.  It  all  seemed  a  mockery,  so  real  and  so 
unreal,  so  changed  and  yet  so  grossly  the  same. 

"  Why  had  I  come  ?"  I  said,  again,  turning  my  eyes 
away  from  a  branch  covered  with  long,  gray  moss,  still 
hanging  over  the  mantlepiecc,  where  cobwebs  and  dust 
were  thick.  The  ashes  were  all  taken  away  from  the 
cheery  little  Franklin  ;  the  andirons  turned  and  stand 
ing  parallel,  the  fender  put  up  in  a  corner.  The  table 
was  shoved  up  against  the  wall ;  the  chairs  stood 
blankly  around  ;  a  dim,  ghastly  light  came  in  through 
the  warped  and  yawning  shutters. 

I  had  promised  myself  that  I  would  not  go  into  the 
nursery.  The  dark  middle  chamber  was  darker  than 
ever ;  it  smelt  of  mildew  and  dust,  and  the  uneven 
floor  creaked  as  I  trod  on  it.  The  wind  howled  through 
the  many  cracks  about  the  boards,  and  a  little  heap  of 
snow  had  already  sifted  in  through  the  chinks  of  the  lit 
tle,  dim  and  dirty  window.  1  pushed  open  the  door  of 
14+ 


322  THE    TDTKLE    OF    A    TINT    BELL. 

my  own  room.  The  bedstead  was  piled  witli  pillows  and 
bolsters ;  the  dressing-table  was  bare  ;  the  chairs  turned 
up,  one  upon  the  other.  The  poor  little  curtains  were 
Btill  hanging,  limp  and  draggled,  at  the  window,  beside 
which  stood  the  big  three-cornered  chair,  in  which  I 
used  to  sit,  with  Middy  mounted  on  the  stool,  looking 
out  at  the  bird's  nest  in  the  old  cedar  tree.  I  wondered 
whether  the  old  cedar  was  still  standing,  whether  the 
birds  had  built  in  it  again.  I  pushed  open  the  shutters 
and  then  put  down  the  sash,  and  sat  down  in  the  old 
chair,  and  leaned  my  face  on  my  hands  upon  the 
window-sill,  and  looked  out. 

Yes,  there  stood  the  cedar,  rough  and  gnarled  and 
bent,  and  in  it — my  heart  gave  a  sickening  throb  —was 
the  bird's  nest  as  of  old.  "A  forsaken  bird's  nest 
filled  with  snow."  The  tree  rocked  with  the  pressure 
of  the  wind  ;  the  dead  leaves  of  the  vine  about  it,  fell 
with  ever}7  gust ;  but  the  nest  clung  there,  empty,  use 
less,  undesired.  The  young  and  living  brood  that  once 
had  filled  it — where  were  they  ?  The  animate  gone, 
the  inanimate  left.  My  desolation  pressed  down  heavier 
upon  me,  as  I  gazed  at  these  familiar,  unmoved  things 
of  nature  ;  the  old  boxwood  below  the  window,  where 
the  children  played  ;  the  cedar  where  we  watched  the 
bird's  nest ;  the  grape-vine  where  Naomi  swung  them. 
I  felt  as  if  they  should  have  perished  ;  as  if  it  were  a 
cruelty  that  they  should  stand  while  the  years  passed 
over  them,  and  all  that  dear  and  precious  flesh  was 
hidden  under  darkness  and  decay. 

As  I  sat  gazing  out,  there  came  upon  me  a  vivid 
recollection  of  that  morning  after  Baby's  illness,  when 
I  was  sitting  there  with  Maidy,  looking  at  the  birds, 
and  Macnally  had  come  by,  with  his  fishing-rod  upon 


THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TINT    BELL.  323 

liis  shoulder.  I  recalled  Maidy's  eager  pleasure  at  the 
sight  of  him  ;  I  could  see  his  lithe  and  graceful  figure 
as  he  swung  himself  up  into  the  branch  and  held  out 
the  shells  to  her  one  by  one.  Every  word  that  we  had 
eaid  came  back  to  me.  I  saw  again  Ann  Day  come 
out  with  her  basket  of  clothes ;  I  saw  the  dark  flush 
pass  over  her  face,  as  she  watched  the  distracted  parent 
bird ;  I  heard  her  muttered  curse,  and  saw  her  go  an 
grily  away.  Since  it  occurred,  I  had  never  remembered 
before  the  incident  of  the  strangled  birds  found  below 
the  nest  that  afternoon.  A  great  pressure  of  great 
events  had  pushed  it  out  of  my  mind.  Now  it  came 
back  to  me  with  a  keen  clearness.  I  remembered  that 
at  the  time,  I  had  felt  sure  that  Ann  had  done  it.  I 
had  been  able  to  account  for  it  by  the  insane  impulse  to 
level  all  maternal  happiness  to  her  own  dreary  desola 
tion.  It  had  affected  me,  at  the  time,  but  I  had  forgot 
ten  it. 

A  sudden  illumination  filled  and  stunned  me.  It  was 
Ann  Day's  maniac  hand  that  had  robbed  my  nest  of 
its  brood.  It  was  that  poor  crazed  brain  that  had  risen 
up  at  the  sight  of  my  too-full  arms,  and  had  dragged 
their  treasure  out.  Every  circumstance  that  I  could 
recall  confirmed  it.  I  heard,  as  if  just  spoken,  Sophia's 
words  as  she  came  into  the  parlor  where  I  sat  in  the 
darkness,  brooding  over  Macnally's  going : 

"  Ann  Day  went  away  without  her  money  to-night/' 
The  unexplained  fact  that  Rex  had  not  barked ;  the 
lack  of  evidence  that  any  burglary  had  been  attempted ; 
her  familiarity  with  the  house  ;  her  accustomed  noise- 
lessness — all  these  things  flashed  before  my  mind  in  a 
moment.  I  got  up  from  my  seat,  a  sort  of  fire  running 
through  my  veins.  If  she  should  be  dead ;  if  it  should 


324:  THE    TIXKLE    OF    A    TIXY    BELL. 

be  impossible  to  prove  it ;  if  this  injustice  must  go  on 
forever !  I  knew  now  why  I  had  come.  But  my  word 
and  my  conviction  would  do  little  if  I  could  not  get 
some  proof. 

I  hurried  out  into  the  snow,  now  driving  in  thick 
sheets  past  the  house.  The  road  to  Ann's  cottage  was 
a  lonely  one.  I  shortened  it  by  crossing  some  fields  and 
going  along  a  lane.  It  was  a  desperate  battle  with  the 
wind  and  snow.  When  I  came  in  sight  of  it,  I  was  so 
nearly  exhausted  I  had  to  stop  and  rest.  I  was  prepar 
ing  myself  to  tind  it  vacant,  to  hear,  when  I  should  go 
back  to  the  village,  that  she  had  gone  away,  and  that 
all  trace  of  her  was  lost.  When  I  got  within  a  few  rods 
of  the  house,  I  saw  a  thin  curl  of  smoke  rising  from  the 
broken  chimney.  Then,  whoever  might  be  there,  it  was 
not  empty. 

It  was  a  wretched  hovel,  patched  up  in  every  way 
to  keep  out  the  cold  sea  winds.  There  were  some  kettles 
and  a  tub  beside  the  door ;  a  dingy  rag  or  two  fluttered 
from  a  bush  at  the  end  of  the  house.  I  stood  on  the  stone 
before  the  door,  and  knocked.  An  almost  inaudible 
voice  within  answered.  I  entered.  The  room  was  so 
low  and  so  dark  I  could  scarcely  distinguish  anything 
for  a  moment.  Something  moved  on  a  low  bed  beside 
the  stove.  I  picked  my  way  across  the  room,  and  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  It  was  a  scene  of  indescribable 
squalor.  The  figure  on  the  bed  was  covered  with  all 
imaginable  rags,  crowned  with  an  old  piece  of  carpet ; 
the  window  above  it  was  stuffed  up  with  a  sheaf  of 
straw ;  the  smell  from  the  stove  was  very  coarse  and 
disgusting. 

"  Is  it  Ann  ?"  I  said.  "  I  have  come  to  see  Ann 
Day.  It's  so  dark  I  can't  tell." 


'  THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TINY    BELL.  325 

A  head  was  turned  over  a  little  towards  tlie  faint 
light  of  the  opposite  window. 

"  Yes,  it's  Ann  Day.   "What  are  ye  wantin'  wi'  me  ?" 

I  now  recognized  her  face.  She  did  not  look  much 
changed,  except  thinner,  and  she  had  an  expression  of 
physical  suffering — suffering  which  quite  engrossed  her 
thoughts.  She  moved  herself  up  a  little  in  the  bed  and 
looked  at  me.  I  came  around  to  the  side  of  the  bed 
and  stood  very  near  to  her.  She  recognized  me,  but  it 
didn't  seem  to  affect  her  much ;  she  was  much  more 
interested  in  a  pain  which  had  resulted  from  her  turn 
ing  over. 

She  talked  a  little,  answered  all  my  questions  quite 
intelligently.  She  had  been  ill,  she  said,  off  and  on  all' 
the  fall.  She  had  been  very  bad  since  the  day  before 
yesterday.  She  wouldn't  let  folks  know,  because  they 
would  make  her  go  to  the  county  house.  They  had 
been  trying  to  get  her  there  all  the  winter  before.  She 
wasn't  going  for  'em.  She'd  stay  where  she  was,  if  she 
died  for  it.  I  saw  from  her  gasping  way  of  speaking 
that  she  had  some  sharp  trouble  about  the  lungs.  She 
had  fever,  and  the  agony  in  her  side  was  great  when 
she  tried  to  move.  I  tried  to  make  her  comfortable  in 
the  wretched  bed.  I  gave  her  a  drink  of  some  hot 
thing  on  the  stove  that  she  had  been  trying  to  prepare. 
Then  I  drew  a  chair  up  by  the  bed  and  sat  down  on  it. 

"  Ann,"  I  said,  "  I  owe  you  some  money,  I  want  to 
pay  you ;  "  and  took  out  my  purse.  Ann  was  always 
greedy  of  money  ;  she  looked  up  eagerly  and  watched 
me. 

"  Why  did  you  go  away  that  night  without  your 
money  ?"  I  said. 

"  Eh  ?"  she  said,  her  face  darkening  a  little. 


326  THE    TINKLE    OF     A    TINY    BELL. 

"  I  would  have  paid  you,"  I  went  on.  "  You  know 
I  al  ways  pay  you,  no  matter  what  happens.  See,  here 
is  your  dollar." 

Her  fingers  closed  greedily  over  it. 

"  And  there's  another  thing,  Ann,"  I  said.  ''  I  want 
that  little  lamb  of  Baby's.  You  ought  not  to  keep  it 
away  from  me,  it  belongs  to  me.  I  always  thought 
'  you  were  an  honest  woman,  Ann." 

"  Sure  and  I  am  an  honest  woman,"  she  said,  hotly. 

"  Well,  is  it  honest  to  be  keeping  away  from  me 
what's  my  own  2" 

"  It  can't  do  you  no  good." 

"  You  might  as  well  say  that  little  pink  calico  frock 
of  your  little  girl's  couldn't  do  you  any  good,  because 
you  couldn't  use  it.  What  would  you  think  of  me  if  I 
got  hold  of  it  and  kept  it,  and  wouldn't  give  it  back  to 
you  ?" 

A  dark  flush  rose  to  the  woman's  face, 

"  I  am  an  honest  woman,"  she  muttered.  "  I  never 
kep'  a.happorth  that  I  didn't  own.  I've  got  nothin' 
on  my  conscience.  You  can  see  my  bank-book.  I've 
got  no  call  to  steal." 

"  That's  what  I  always  thought  till  1  find  you  won't 
give  me  back  the  little  lamb  that's  mine.  Give  it  to 
me,  and  I'll  think  you"  are  an  honest  woman."  She 
muttered  and  turned  restlessly  on  the  bed ;  this  time  the 
pain  the  motion  gave  her  did  not  engross  her  wholly. 

"  I  was  always  good  to  you,  Ann.  I  always  treated 
you  well.  Give  me  what  is  mine,  and  I'll  be  content. 
The  lamb  belongs  to  me.  The  one  that  keeps  it  is  no 
better  than  a  thief." 

"I'm  no  thief,"  she  cried,  "  I  earn  my  own  bit  and 
sup.  Nobody  can  say  I  don't." 


THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TINT    BELL.  327 

"  Very  well,  I  won't  say  you  don't,  if  you  give  me 
what  is  mine.  I'll  always  be  your  friend,  but  you  must 
give  me  what  is  mine." 

I  saw  her  put  her  hand  under  the  bolster,  and  take 
out  something ;  she  kept  on  muttering,  looking  at  me 
distrustfully.  "  It'll  be  all  right,  if  you  let  me  have  it, 
Ann.  You're  so  sick,  you  don't  want  anything  upon 
your  conscience." 

"  I  never  took  a  happorth  from  anybody.  I  can 
die  in  peace,"  she  said,  in  gasps,  for  the  oppression 
seemed  growing  very  great.  I  saw  it  was  a  key  in  her 
hand.  I  leaned  forward,  and  gently,  swiftly  got  it  into 
mine.  She  still  looked  at  me  with  distrust. 

"Where  is  it  ?"  I  said,  getting  up. 

"  In  the  box  anent  the  chimney-piece,"  she  said, 
pointing  up  the  stairs. 

I  climbed  the  stairs,  which  shook  at  every  step. 
The  attic,  when  I  reached  it,  was  so  low  I  could  not 
stand  upright.  The  light  was  so  dim  I  had  to  feel  my 
way  along,  till  I  came  to  the  bricks  of  the  chimney. 
There  beside  it  stood  an  old  hair  trunk ;  there  was  a 
little  ray  of  light  coming  in  from  a  single  pane  of  glass 
set  in  the  gable  of  the  house,  this  was  all  I  had  to  see 
by.  The  wind  was  roaring  outside,  the  snow  was  drift 
ing  in  through  many  broken  places  in  the  wretched  roof. 
I  knelt  down  before  the  old  box,  and  felt  with  my 
hands  for  the  key-hole.  I  heard  the  woman  moving  in 
her  bed,  down-stairs;  I  wondered  if  she  had  repented  ' 
and  would  follow  me  tip-stairs,  and  with  the  strength 
of  fever,  attack  and  injure  me.  My  only  companion 
in  this  far  desolate  spot  was  a  mad  woman  ;  no  wonder 
that  my  hands  shook  as  I  tried  in  vain  to  find  the  lock. 

At  last  the  key-  moved,,  with  a -.strong  effort.      I 


328  THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TUTT    BELL. 

lifted  the  lid,  and  put  down  my  hand.  As  I  moved 
slightly  the  things  inside,  a  faint  tinkling  sound  struck 
my  ear.  I  gave  a  cry,  as  my  hand  touched  the  fleecy 
covering  of  the  poor  little  toy  that  ray  Baby  had  held 
against  her  breast  when  she  fell  asleep  for  the  last  time. 
I  moaned  and  pressed  it  to  my  lips.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  all  my  agony  and  yearning  had  come  back  as  at  the 
first. 

A  hoarse  call  from  below  recalled  me  to  myself.  I 
started  up,  but  before  I  shut  down  the  lid,  I  assured 
myself  that  there  was  nothing  else  that  concerned  me 
in  the  trunk.  There  was  the  old  bank-book ;  there  was 
the  precious  little  pink  calico  gown  ;  the  bundle  of 
clothes  with  the  name  pinned  on  them.  That  was  all. 
I  shut  the  trunk  and  locked  it,  and  made  my  way  down 
the  rickety  stairs. 

Ann  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  disturbed  and 
threatening  expression.  She  had  evidently  attempted 
to  follow  me,  but  her  pain  had  come  on  and  made  it 
impossible.  I  just  showed  her  the  lamb,  and  then  put 
it  out  of  sight,  and  sat  down  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

"Accusin'  an  honest  body,"  she  kept  saying.  I 
knew  that  nothing  could  be  gained  to  satisfy  any  mind 
but  my  own,  by  what  I  could  get  her  to  say  to  me 
alone.  So,  after  a  few  moments,  I  told  her  I  was  going 
away,  and  would  come  back,  to  bring  her  some  tea  and 
sugar,  and  some  things  to  make  her  comfortable.  She 
still  looked  unreconciled  to  me.  I  went  hurriedly. 

The  snow  had  ceased  falling,  and  the  sky  was  not  so 
dark.  I  went  to  the  nearest  neighbor,  and  got  a  horse  and 
wagon,  and  a  man  to  drive  me.  Then  I  went  to  the  vil 
lage  doctor,  and  to  a  magistrate.  I  explained  what  I  had 
discovered.  They  were  alert  and  interested,  and  in  a  very 


THE    TINKLE    OF    A    TINY    BELL.  329 

short  time  we  were  all  at  the  door  of  the  poor  creature's 
hovel.  She  was  angry  and  stubborn  when  she  saw  the 
men ;  she  thought  they  had  come  to  take  her  to  the  poor- 
house,  which  was  the  object  of  her  greatest  dread.  Not  a 
word  could  be  got  from  her.  She  turned  over  with  her 
face  to  the  wall,  and  clutched  the  bed,  as  if  to  resist 
being  dragged  off  from  it. 

"  Now,  look  here,  Ann,"  said  the  doctor,  sitting 
down  beside  her,  "  we've  gone  through  all  this  be 
fore.  I  made  up  my  mind,  last  winter,  I  wouldn't  send 
you  to  the  county  house,  no  matter  who  said  that  you 
ought  to  go.  I've  come  to  give  you  medicine  and  to 
help  you  to  get  round  again,  so  as  to  take  care  of  your 
self.  This  lady  here  promises  to  pay  for  taking  care 
of  you  while  you're  sick.  Nobody  wants  to  take  you 
away  from  this  house,  while  there's  anybody'll  take 
care  of  you  in  it,  that's  sure." 

Ann's  only  answer  was  to  turn  her  head  and  give  a 
threatening  look  at  the  magistrate,  who  stood  behind 
him.  It  was  difficult  to  re-assure  her  about  him,  though 
happily  she  did  not  know  his  office.  We  all  sat  down, 
after  the  magistrate  had  brought  in  a  few  armfuls  of 
wood  for  her,  to  show  his  good  will,  and  the  doctor 
dexterously  began  his  cross-examination.  I  don't  know 
how,  exactly,  he  managed  it,  but  the  results  were  all 
we  could  have  asked.  Of  course,  the  testimony  of  an 
insane  woman  would  have  been  worth  nothing:  in 

o 

a  court  of  law ;  but,  thank  Heaven,  we  were  done  with 
courts  of  law,  and  poor  Ann's  only  tribunal  would  be 
a  higher  one,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  very 
near. 

She  evidently  was  distressed  and  uncomfortable 
about  the  murder,  but  it  was  not  at  all  upon  her  con- 


330  THE    TESTKLE    OF    A    TINY    BELL. 

science.  The  detaining  of  the  toy  from  me  was  a  much 
more  serious  matter  in  her  eyes,  us  approaching  to  the 
recognized  sin  of  theft.  She  defended  herself  warmly, 
and  aliihned  she  hadn't  known  I  wanted  it.  That  led 
her  to  speak  freely  of  the  children,  and  of  her  taking  it 
out  of  Baby's  arms.  She  remembered  the  night,  its 
stillness  and  darkness,  and  the  time  the  train  went  out, 
and  when  Matilda  went  up-stairs  to  bed,  while  she 
looked  in  the  window.  It  was  all  confused  and  ram 
bling,  but  there  was  enough  to  satisfy  any  mind  that 
was  capable  of  judging,  even  without  the  proof  that  I 
had  found  hidden  in  the  trunk  up-stairs.  She  had  no 
power  to  give  her  motive  ;  no  power  to  distinguish  be 
tween  right  and  wrong ;  she  seemed  to  have  no  remorse 
for  what  she  had  done ;  a  dumb  instinct  of  fear  and 
apprehension  had  led  her  to  keep  out  of  the  way  while 
search  was  being  made,  and  to  resist  us  now  when  we 
probed  incautiously. 

It  was  a  strange  study,  that  shattered  mind.  "We 
Bat  beside  her  for  an  hour  or  more.  The  magis 
trate,  withdrawing  himself  from  sight  a  little,  wrote 
down  every  word  she  said.  At  last  the  doctor  and 
he  went  away,  leaving  me  to  care  for  her  till  some  one 
else  should  come.  Before  night,  the  power  to  give 
even  the  poor,  fragmentary  story  we  had  got  from  her 
was  gone.  Delirium  and  fever  came,  and  the  clouds 
closed  in  forever  round  the  broken  mind  and  heart. 

She  only  lived  two  days  more.  I  staid  with  her 
until  the  last.  When  I  soothed  and  bathed  and  held 
in  mine  the  poor  hands  that  had  dealt  me  such  a  mortal 
hurt,  I  thanked  God  that  He  had  given  me  the  chance 
to  do  it.  I  prayed  Him  to  forgive  her  for  even  her 
unwitting  sin ;  1  loosed  the  bunds  that,  perhaps,  only 


THE    TINKLE    OP    A    TINY    BELL.  331 

the  sinned  against  can  loose.  As  I  knelt  beside  her  in 
the  dark,  dreary  hovel,  with  the  night  wind  roaring 
outside,  and  the  fire  burning  low  within,  her  moans 
grew  fainter,  her  breathing  softened  ;  "  me  foiue  ghirl 
— me  foine  ghirl,"  she  murmured,  "  it's  all  roight  wi' 
me,  it's  all  roight." 

The  hand  in  mine  relaxed;  her  head  fell  back. 
I  knew  it  was  all  right  with  her  at  last,  poor  soul ! 

These  incidents  made  a  great  sensation  in  South 
Berwick.  There  had  been  no  doubt  of  Macnally's  guilt 
before.  It  came  like  an  awful  revelation  to  them,  the 
nearness  they  had  been  in  to  the  shedding  of  innocent 
blood.  They  accepted  the  facts  simply,  and  honestly 
acknowledged  their  mistake.  My  one  desire  now  was 
to  get  this  news  to  the  ears  of  Macnally,  if  he  should 
be  living  still.  To  that  end  I  did  everything  that  lay 
in  my  power  to  give  it  publicity.  But  it  was  little  use 
fanning  the  flame.  It  was  a  burned-out  sensation. 
The  local  papers,  of  course,  gave  it  great  prominence. 
But  the  larger  journals,  which  were  the  only  ones  that 
would  convey  it  far  enough  to  reach  him,  contented 
themselves  with  an  insignificant  paragraph  or  two, 
which  might  most  easily  be  overlooked.  I  put  advertise 
ments  in  the  papers,  English  and  Irish,  but  they  never 
met  any  eye  for  which  they  were  intended. 

Of  course,  at  the  very  first  moment,  I  wrote  the 
Emlyns.  Several  weeks  passed,  and  no  word  came. 
At  last,  I  wrote  directly  to  their  banker  in  Paris  ;  in  a 
few  more  weeks  came  an  answer,  inclosing  my  letter 
to  Mrs.  Emlyn,  and  a  very  civil  note  from  a  clerk, 
telling  me  the  news  which  I  must  have  missed  during 
my  week  at  South  Berwick,  where  I  saw  no  papers. 


332  THE    TINKLE    OF     A    TINT    BELL. 

Mi's.  Emlyn  had  died  at  Naples,  after  a  very  short  ill 
ness.  Colonel  Emlyn's  condition  of  mind,  wrote  the 
civil  clerk,  rendered  him  unable  to  receive  or  answer 
letters.  The  young  lady  and  gentleman  who  had  been 
under  their  charge  had  sailed  for  New  Orleans  some 
weeks  before.  lie  was  unable  to  give  me  their  address. 
The  door  was  shut  in  my  face,  in  fact.  I  wrote  again, 
asking  that  the  New  Orleans  address  might  be  found 
for  me,  if  possible.  But  no  answer  ever  came.  Prob 
ably  the  civil  clerk  had  left  the  office.  I  wrote  letters 
to  Naomi  and  to  Ned.  But  New  Orleans  is  a  big 
place,  and  Naomi  and  Ned  were  small  people.  It  was 
no  wonder  that  they  never  got  them,  with  that  very 
general  superscription. 

My  heart  was  sore  with  this  reopening  of  past 
wounds  and  coining  of  new  ones.  The  desolation  that 
had  swept  over  all  that  happy  summer  was  complete. 
My  good  friends ;  how  many  tears  I  shed  for  the  one 
in  her  foreign  grave  ;  the  other,  in  his  no  less  diro 
oblivion.  The  two  children  of  their  love,  set  adrift 
upon  the  world  at  an  age  so  tender ;  how  hopeless  and 
dark  the  mystery  looked ; 

"If  thou  wert  all,  and  naught  beyond,  oh,  earth!" 


CHAPTER  XXY. 

THE    EASTERN     MOON. 

"  The  pure  calm  hope  be  thine, 
Which  brightens  like  the  eastern  moon, 
As  day's  wild  lights  decline." 

Keble. 

TWO  or  three  years  after  this,  I  can't  exactly  remem 
ber  when  it  happened,  a  great  piece  of  good  for 
tune  befell  Sophia.  Some  distant  relative  left  her  what 
was  quite  a  grand  fortune  for  a  person  in  her  walk  of 
life.  She  received  the  news  characteristically.  It  was 
quite  unexpected,  but  she  bore  herself  with  great 
equanimity ;  in  fact,  towards  me,  in  almost  utter 
silence.  After  the  first  glow  of  satisfaction,  a  gloom 
settled  on  her.  I  think  it  seemed  to  her  "  on  the  up 
rooted  flower,  the  genial  rain."  What  might  it  not 
have  been,  if  it  had  come  earlier,  and  when  there  was 
some  object  in  making  our  lives  happy. 

After  a  few  days,  she  came  to  me,  and  I  saw  she 
had  been  bracing  herself  up  to  the  necessary  discussion 
of  plans. 

"  Well,  Sophia,"  I  said,  with  something  between  a 
smile  and  a  sigh,  "  I  suppose  I  am  now  to  take  care 
of  myself.  You  have  done  it  for  me  a  good  while.  I 
am  not  unreasonable  enough  to  feel  hurt.  You  must 
tell  me  just  what  you  mean  to  do,  and  I  am  not  going 
to  make  the  least  objection." 

[833J 


334:  THE     KASTEKN    MOON. 

She  waved  her  hand  angrily,  as  if  she  disdained  to 
answer  me. 

"  I  am  going  to  lay  a  plan  before  yon,"  she  said. 
"  It's  for  you  to  say  whether  it  shall  be  carried  out.  I 
want  something  to  do.  I  couldn't  be  happy  to  sit  down 
and  eat  up  my  income.  If  you're  willing,  I  want  to 
take  a  large  house,  and  n't  it  up,  and  rent  out  my  rooms, 
and  furnish  private  meals.  The  best  rooms  shall  be 
fixed  for  you.  You  won't  be  bothered  about  anything ; 
but  it  will  give  me  something  to  do.  It  will  be  an 
interest.  I  can  make  money — Heaven  knows  what 
for — but  it  will  be  something  to  make  it."  I  saw  the 
wisdom  of  the  plan  at  once.  Our  small  and  monoto 
nous  life  had  been  very  wearing  to  Sophia.  When  her 
work  was  done,  which  was  all  too  soon,  she  had  not  my 
resources.  She  could  not  put  a  book  between  her  and 
retrospect,  nor  go  out  and  be  soothed  by  a  sunset  sky 
or  stimulated  by  a  strong  wind.  She  was  much  more 
unhappy  than  I  was,  in  those  days.  I  welcomed  the 
change  for  her,  and  gave  her  all  encouragement. 

Her  face  wore  an  altered  look  from  the  day  it  was 
decided  on.  I  entered  into  it  with  all  the  heart  I  could 
muster.  We  went  out,  day  after  day,  hunting  houses. 
At  last  one  was  selected — or  rather,  two.  They  were 
large — not  new  houses — on  an  avenue  that  had  seen  its 
best  days,  but  was  still  very  respectable.  Indeed,  a 
good  many  people  of  distinction  lived  there  still ;  but 
the  tide  of  fashion  had  rather  set  away  from  it,  and  had 
loft  it  quieter,  and,  consequently,  much  nicer  than 
many  of  its  more  popular  neighbors.  The  avenue  was 
broad.  One  of  the  houses  was  on  the  southeast  corner 
of  a  well-built  street,  on  which  it  opened;  the  other 
one  was  next  it,  on  the  avenue,  on  which  was  its  en- 


THE    EASTERN    MOON.  335 

trance.  The  rent  was  reasonable.  Sophia  took  them 
on  a  long  lease.  A  communication  was  cut  between 
them.  The  rooms  were  large  and  well-shaped ;  they 
arranged  in  suites  admirably.  It  certainly  seemed  a 
good  investment  of  her  capital.  We  furnished  it  pret 
tily,  and  it  was  a  great  amusement.  After  all,  money 
does  bring  a  certain  soulagement. 

My  rooms  were  particularly  to  my  mind.  The 
parlor  was  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  corner  house, 
almost  level  with  the  pavement ;  it  had  three  windows ; 
two  on  the  avenue,  one  on  the  street.  The  houses  op 
posite  were  low ;  we  had  sunshine  a  great  deal  of  the 
day.  Sophia  insisted  upon  giving  me  this  room, 
though  it  would  have  brought  her  in  a  little  fortune,  as 
a  doctor's  office.  It  was  furnished  charmingly,  though 
simply.  I  delighted  in  the  windows,  in  the  fire-place 
(where  I  burned  soft  coal),  in  every  piece  of  furniture 
that  I  got  for  it.  '  My  sleeping-room  was  on  the  floor 
above.  Sophia  had  my  meals  served  to  me  in  my  par 
lor,  in  the  daintiest  manner.  The  servants  were  taught 
to  consider  that  no  one  came  before  me.  I  had  the 
best  that  could  be  found  of  everything. 

The  house  filled  up.  Sophia  knew  how  to  keep  it 
well.  She  had  found  her  niche.  She  had  no  troubles, 
no  perplexities ;  she  loved  to  rule,  and  no  one  did  it 
better.  Her  servants  were  models,  her  house  grew  to 
have  a  certain  reputation  of  its  own  among  people  of 
high  standing.  Her  lodgers  staid  with  her,  year  after 
year.  There  were  applicants  before-hand  for  any  va 
cancies.  Sophia's  fortune  was  made.  She  was  steedily 
making  money,  and  what  was  better,  steadily  growing 
more  at  rest  and  better  satisfied. 

And  so  the  years  went  on.     And  I  ?    I  was  happy. 


336  THE     EASTERN    MOON. 

"My  indomitable  health,"  as  the  doctor  had  said,  had 
borne  me  up  over  the  tide  of  misfortune.  I  was  still 
young.  The  spring  of  life  had  not  been  broken.  My 
sorrows,  as  far  as  I  could  dare  to  say  so,  were  not  the 
results  of  my  sins.  I  was  natural  and  simple-hearted 
enough  to  take  the  reaction  when  it  came,  and  to  lift  up 
my  head  when  the  storm  had  passed.  I  had  wanted  to 
die,  but  since  it  had  pleased  God  that  I  should  live,  I 
took  life  meekly,  and  tried  to  be  happy  in  it.  And  I 
was  happy.  There  was  a  dear  church  in  which  I  daily 
said  my  prayers,  there  was  a  dear  hospital  whose  wards 
were  as  familiar  to  me  as  the  rooms  of  my  own  house. 
And  there  were  my  dear  sunny  windows,  and  my  books, 
and  flowers  that  bloomed  for  me,  and  a  bird  that  sang. 

Yes,  I  was  happy.  It  was  a  singularly  peaceful,  se 
cluded  life  for  one  to  lead  in  a  great  city.  I  had  scarcely 
any  acquaintances  and  no  friends,  except  among  the 
poor  and  dying  ones  to  whom  1  ministered.  Some 
times  the  people  who  visited  at  the  hospital,  or  whom 
I  met  at  church,  would  try  to  approach  me.  That  was 
the  only  morbid  thing  about  me.  I  could  not  meet 
their  advances.  It  would  be  only  ripping  open  the 
wound  again  to  make  new  friends.  I  resisted  all  at 
tempts  to  be  drawn  at  all  out  of  my  silent  life.  I 
suppose  a  certain  mystery  surrounded  me.  I  know 
curious  eyes  followed  me.  Not  unfrequently  some  of 
the  families  occupying  Sophia's  rooms  would  make  in 
quiries  of  her ;  it  sometimes  happened  that  flowers  or 
fruit  would  be  sent  to  me  by  the  more  determined  ones. 
But  they  never  succeeded  in  breaking  in  upon  the 
sanctity  and  stillness  of  my  life. 

It  wras  now  ten  years  since  the  death  of  my  children. 
1  was  a  woman  of  thirty-four,  not  old  looking  for  thir- 


THE    EASTERN    MOON.  337 

ty-fonr.  Several  years  of  peace  had  given  me  a  look 
of  content,  I  dare  say.  The  days  were  wearing  on  as 
usual.  I  had  nothing  to  dread.  There  is  one  element 
of  peace  in  that.  All  had  happened  to  me  that  could 
happen,  it  seemed  to  me.  If  Sophia  should  die,  I 
should  lose  a  friend,  but  it  would  not  be  beyond  my 
strength  to  bear.  If  illness  came  to  me,  I  felt  I  could 
endure  it.  I  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  the  sight  and 
thought  of  illness  in  the  hospital,  that  I  did  not  dread 
it  as  before.  If  death  came — there  was  no  question  of 
mourning  then. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  late  November.  I  was  tired 
from  several  hours  at  the  hospital,  but  when  I  came  in, 
I  found  my  fire  blazing,  and  a  very  cheerful  look  about 
my  room.  I  was  sitting  in  a  favorite  deep  chair  by  one 
of  the  windows,  a  book  in  my  hand,  idly  looking  out 
and  resting  from  my  long  day's  work.  I  felt  a  trine 
dispirited  that  day.  I  had  found  myself  out  in  a  matter, 
in  a  V7ay  that  discouraged  me  with  myself.  I  had 
found  I  had  a  hope,  which  I  had  said  daily  to  my 
self  was  dead.  I  could  no  longer  hide  it  from  myself, 
that  every  day,  when  I  walked  through  those  dreary 
wards,  I  said  inwardly,  I  may  find  him  there.  When 
ever  a  new  case  was  brought  in.  I  found  myself  watch 
ing  eagerly  to  see  the  face  upon  the  pillow.  I  looked 
over  the  lists  daily  in  all  the  men's  wards.  I  had  seen 
so  many  foreigners,  so  many  men  of  education,  lying 
there,  unknown  and  friendless,  I  said  to  myself,  why 
not  he,  if  he  still  lives?  There  is  just  one  chance  in  a 
thousand.  There  is  no  wrong  in  looking  for  him.  That 
day  I  had  seen  a  face  that  recalled  his  so  strongly,  I 
had  scarcely  had  strength  to  look  again.  But  it  was  only 
to  be  disappointed ;  it  was  not  he.  I  had  been  un- 
15 


338  THE    EASTERN    MOON. 

nerved  and  unfitted  for  my  work  by  it.  I  reproached 
myself,  and  came  home  heavy-hearted. 

So,  when  Sophia  came  in  and  sat  down  by  the  other 
window,  as  she  often  did  towards  twilight,  to  talk  with 
me  a  little  while,  it  was  quite  an  effort  for  me  to  look 
up  cheerfully  and  say,  "  Well,  what  has  been  going  on 
to-day  ?" 

"  The  second  floor  front  in  the  other  house  is  let," 
she  said,  with  a  tone  of  satisfaction. 

"  Ah  ?  That's  good  news.    I  hope  to  a  good  tenant  ?" 

"  There  couldn't  be  a  better,  I  should  think.  He's 
only  too  swell,  I'm  afraid,  for  me." 

"  Oh,  you'll  be  equal  to  the  situation.  I'm  not 
afraid  for  yon.  Who  sent  them  to  you,  or  him — which 
was  it  that  you  said  ?" 

For  I  was  trying  hard  to  be  interested,  with  but 
very  poor  success. 

"It's  a  gentleman.  The  British  Consul  sent  him 
to  me.  I  guess  you've  heard  of  him,  that  is,  if  you  have 
read  the  papers."  There  was  a  tone  of  satisfaction  in 
her  voice.  Sophia  liked  to  have  distinguished  people 
in  her  house. 

"  Why,  what  is  he,"  I  said,  "  to  get  himself  into 
the  papers  'f 

"  Well,  he's  a  speaker  ;  he  gives  lectures,  and  makes 
speeches.  He's  all  the  fashion  just  now.  He's  just 
come  over  from  England.  He's  a  great  man,  accord 
ing  to  the  papers.  He  has  written  poetry  —  and 
things.  Everybody's  talking  about  him,  so  they  tell 
me." 

And  Sophia  looked  more  satisfied  than  ever. 

u  You  can't  mean — Conyngham  ?"  I  said,  looking 
up. 


THE    EASTERN    MOON.  339 

"  Yes,"  said  Sophia,  with  importance.  "  That's  the 
name.  Mr.  Conyngham." 

"  Sophia !"  I  exclaimed,  vividly  interested.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  he  is  coining  here  ?" 

"  Why  not,  to  he  sure?  Do  people  that  write  books 
want  more  tenderloins  and  mushrooms  than  other 
boarders  ?  I  guess  my  table  will  do  him,  if  he's  only 
got  to  write  poetry  and  make  speeches.  It's  the  swell 
people  that  I  am  afraid  of — swell  English  people,  more 
than  any  others." 

"  I  don't  care  about  the  swellness  of  him,  though 
he's  all  that,  I  believe.  But,  Sophia,  are  you  sure?" 

"  Sure  as  fate,"  said  Sophia,  not  altogether  pleased 
with  my  remaining  doubts. 

"  It's  the  strangest,  strangest  thing,"  I  said,  lifting 
up  a  book  upon  my  lap.  u  This  is  one  of  his  books  I 
was  just  reading.  I  thought,  only  last  night,  when  I 
finished  the  first  volume,  what  would  I  give  to  see  him, 
to  know  what  he  looked  like  in  the  flesh." 

"Well,  naturally,  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  hanker 
much  to  see  him  any  other  way,"  said  Sophia,  a  little 
tartly. 

"  But,  Sophia,  what  does  he  look  like  ?  Tell  me  all 
about  him." 

"  I  can  tell  yon  better  when  I've  seen  him." 

"  You  haven't  seen  him  ?" 

"  No,  he  came  while  I  was  out  at  market.  Mary 
showed  him  the  rooms.  lie  seemed  pleased.  This 
afternoon  his  agent  came  and  saw  me,  and  engaged 
them,  and  told  me  who  he  was." 

"  Does  he  bring  a  servant  ?" 

"  No,  he  only  has  the  two  rooms,  the  parlor  and  the 
bedroom.  The  agent  said  he  might  \\  ant  a  good  doul 


THE    EASTERN    MOON. 

of  waiting  on,  but  lie'd  pay  me  extra  for  it;  he  didn't 
keep  a  man.  It's  a  very  good  price  he  pays;  he  can 
have  all  the  waiting  on  he  wants.  I  can't  get  on  with 
people  that  put  on  airs,  but  I  don't  take  it  he's  the  kind 
that  does." 

"  I  should  think  not !  But — well,  when  does  he 
come  2" 

"  To-morrow  afternoon ;  his  baggage  is  coming  in 
the  morning." 

"  Well,  Sophia,  be  sure  you  take  a  good  look  at 
him  and  tell  me  what  he's  like.  I  can't  help  wonder 
ing — wondering — what  the  man  would  look  like  that 
had  written  that  book." 

"  Why,  don't  you  like  it  ?"  said  Sophia,  a  little  un 
easily. 

"Like  it!  Ah — I've  more  than  liked  it.  It's 
stirred  me  to  my  depths  !" 

"  Well,"  said  Sophia,  getting  up,  "  it  always  strikes 
me  people  must  be  a  little  soft  that  go  on  that  way 
about  books.  Strikes  me  I  wouldn't  let  anybody  hear 
me  talk  that  way  if  I  was  in  your  place." 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  disedify  Mary  and  But 
tons  ?  I'll  be  very  careful.  There's  nobody  else  that's 
likely  to  come  in  range  of  my  observations." 

Sophia  was  jealous  of  my  books,  as  she  had  nothing 
else  to  be  jealous  of,  except  the  hospital.  Poor  soul, 
there  was  a  time  when  she  was  very  glad  to  see  me 
take  to  them,  but  she  had  forgotten  that. 

The  next  afternoon,  when  I  came  home,  I  thought 
with  lively  interest  of  the  new  arrival.  I  entered 
always  by  the  door  of  the  street ;  he  would  go  in  by 
the  avenue  door,  consequently,  I  saw  no  trace  of  his 
arrival,  Sophia  did  not  come  in,  as  was  her  habit. 


THE*   EASTERN    MOON.  34:1 

during  the  hour  before  dinner.  I  missed  her  less,  be 
cause,  with  the  book  in  my  hand,  I  sat  by  the  window 
as  long  as  I  could  see,  and  then  sat  with  it  in  my  lap 
before  the  fire,  wondering,  pondering,  with  my  eyes 
fixed  on  the  deep  glow  of  the  coals.  It  was  a  strange 
chance  that  had  brought  that  writer  under  the  same 
roof  with  one  to  whom  his  books  had  been  so  much. 
But — with  a  sigh — it  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  chance, 
strange  and  wonderful,  to  him.  ~No  doubt  he  was  well 
used  to  finding  flatterers  under  every  rooff  and  I  must 
prepare  myself  for  being  disillusionized.  I  had  heard 
people  of  common  sense  always  were  disillusionized 
when  brought  face  to  face  with  genius,  and  I  was  a 
person  of  common  sense,  Sophia  notwithstanding.  No 
doubt  he  would  be  short  and  stout,  material-looking 
and  dull-eyed.  Ah,  yes,  I  must  be  prepared  for  this. 
I  much  preferred  it  to  long  hair  and  a  poetic  look. 
He  was  sure  not  to  have  that ;  he  was  too  great  a  swell, 
according  to  the  papers.  I  didn't  mind  the  swellness, 
as  I  had  said,  one  way  or  the  other.  That  was  an  ac 
cident  of  birth  or  temperament.  But  I  earnestly 
wished  he  might  not  be  stout.  My  mind  dwelt  upon, 
his  waistcoat. 

When  my  dinner  was  brought  in,  I  asked  the  maid 
about  Sophia. 

Oh,  didn't  I  know  ?  She  had  told  Buttons  to  tell 
me  as  soon  as  I  came  in.  She  was  taken  sick  that 
morning  when  she  came  in  from  market,  and  was  in 
bed  with  the  worst-  kind  of  a  pain  in  both  her  ankles. 
She  was  very  bad. 

As  soon  as  I  had  eaten  my  dinner,  I  went  up  to 
her.  She  occupied  a  room  on  the  top  floor  of  the 


342  THE    EASTERN    MOON. 

house,  as  cold  and  cheerless  as  possible.  Nothing 
would  ever  induce  her  to  do  better  for  herself :  even 
in  summer,  when  her  house  was  nearly  empty,  she  still 
struggled  up  to  this  dismal  spot. 

I  found  her  very  suffering,  and  necessarily  pretty 
sharp.  I  took  the  matter  into  my  own  hands,  and  had 
a  fire  made  up  in  the  tiny  little  grate,  and  sent  for  a 
shade  for  her  light,  and  put  things  in  some  sort  of  com 
fortable  order.  Also,  Buttons  went  privately  out  to 
get  the  doctor.  She  growled  at  all  these  things,  but  I 
think  it  pleased  her  to  have  me  care  for  her.  I  sat 
down  by  her,  and  waited  for  the  doctor.  All  her  cares 
were  very  heavy  on  her.  It  was  useless  to  reassure  her ; 
she  wasn't  used  to  being  ill.  She  was  determined  in 
her  own  mind  that  everything  should  go  wrong. 

"  That  man's  dinner,"  she  said.  To  think  of  his 
first  dinner  going  up  without  her  being  there  to  see  to 
it.  She  had  smelt  the  soup  burning  all  the  way  up  to 
the  fourth  floor.  She  knew  for  a  certainty  he  would 
go  away  in  the  morning. 

"  Did  you  see  him  when  he  came  ?" 

"  See  him  ?  No,  of  course,  I  didn't.  lie  had  to 
come,  with  nobody  to  show  him  to  his  room,  Buttons 
standing  on  his  head  because  there  was  a  fireman's  pro 
cession  in  the  street,  Mary  flustering  away  because  Mrs. 
Graham  had  rung  her  bell,  and  Elza,  scrubbing  out 
the  bath-room,  found  him  standing  over  her  shoulder, 
and  saying,  '  Can  you  tell  me  where  I'll  find  my  room  ?' 
The  clean  sash  curtains  weren't  put  up.  The  fire  wasn't 
made  in  the  grate ;  he  had  to  ring  his  bell  to  order 
it.  There's  just  one  thing  about  it.  He'll  go  away  to 
morrow,  and  I'll  have  my  rooms  upon  my  hands.  And 
it'll  be  a  while  before  the  British  Consul  sends  me  any 


THE    EASTERN    MOON.  343 

body  else ;  I  might  as  well  give  up  the  house,  if  I  can't 
keep  about  and  see  to  things  myself.'.' 

It  was  no  use  to  argue  with  her,  though,  of  course, 
I  tried  to  do  it.  I  only  hoped  the  doctor  would  be  en 
couraging  when  he  came.  But  he  wasn't  encouraging 
to  me,  at  least,  when  I  followed  him  down  stairs  and 
asked  him  his  opinion.  She  was  in  for  a  long  illness,  he 
was  afraid.  It  would  be  a  wonder  if  she  got  out  of  her 
room  all  winter ;  inflammatory  rheumatism  was  not  an 
easy  thing  to  manage  in  a  person  of  her  temperament. 
He  advised  me  to  encourage  her,  and  not  let  her  know 
how  ill  she  was,  and  keep  her  from  fretting  about  the 
housekeeping. 

It  was  certainly  good  advice ;  I  had  been  anticipat 
ing  him,  however ;  but  Sophia  was  not  encouraged.  We 
had  our  hands  full,  Buttons  and  Mary  and  I,  for  the 
next  two  or  three  days,  in  keeping  her  encouraged  and 
in  reassuring  her  about  the  house.  I  gave  up  the  hospital, 
of  course,  and  had  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  the  time  in 
her  room.  (A  good  deal  of  the  time  I  was  ordered  out 
of  it.)  Virtually,  much  of  the  direction  of  the  house 
carne  on  rne ;  I  tried  to  spare  her  in  everything. 

My  interest  in  the  new  great  man  did  not  abate 
exactly,  but  I  had  not  very  much  time  to  think 
about  the  matter.  He  did  not  go  away,  however,  as 
Sophia  had  predicted,  but  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to 
be  establishing  himself  for  the  winter.  Notes  with 
magnificent  monograms  were  coming  all  the  time.  Car 
riages  were  driving  up  to  leave  cards,  or  bring  impor 
tant-looking  gentlemen  to  call.  Buttons  gave  up  the 
boot-blacking  and  the  knives,  and  did  little  else  but  open 
the  front  door  and  "  run  of  arrants  "  for  the  stranger ; 
an  inferior  boy  was  found  to  take  his  place  down-stairs. 


34:4:  THE    EASTERN    MOON". 

One  day,  sitting  in  the  window,  I  saw  a  carriage 
drive  up.  The  footman  took  a  note,  and  brought  it  to 
the  door.  I  saw  a  girl's  face  at  the  carriage-window — 
the  sweetest,  most  earnest,  enthusiastic  face.  She 
looked  up  at  the  house  with  such  a  world  of  expression  in 
her  eyes.  He,  the  hero  of  her  dreams,  the  genius  who 
had  enfliralled  her  soul,  lived  there,  behind  that  red 
brick  wall,  with  its  plain,  square  windows  and  white 
shades.  How  could  they  look  like  other  red-brick 
walls  and  windows  ?  The  house  was  transformed  for 
her ;  she  devoured  it  with  her  eyes ;  her  gaze  lingered  on 
it  as  the  carriage  drove  away. 

Pretty  young  thing  !  it  made  me  a  little  ashamed  of 
my  enthusiasm  for  his  books  though,  since  I  had  such 
immature  company  in  my  enthusiasm.  I  couldn't  un 
derstand  how  they  could  have  appealed  to  an  imagina 
tion  so  young,  a  heart  so  inexperienced.  To  me,  they 
would  have  been  written  in  a  dead  language  at  her  age  ; 
at  least,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  recalled  myself.  But, 
in  some  matters,  we  sometimes  do  our  youth  injustice. 

That  afternoon  I  took  a  collection  of  papers  up 
stairs  to  Sophia,  and,  sitting  down,  proceeded  to  amuse 
her  with  the  divers  descriptions,  histories,  and  criti 
cisms  of  her  interesting  lodger.  It  really  eased  her 
pain  considerably.  She  took  a  personal  pride  in  hie 
successes. 

"  Now,  Sophia,"  I  said,  "  we'll  skip  his  parentage ; 
there's  half  a  column  of  it.  I'm  sure  we  don't  care 
who  his  great-grandfather  was,  and  his  distinguished 
uncle  that  married  Lady  Somebody.  It's  evident  they're 
all  vastly  above  us.  We  concede  it.  But  they  weren't, 
oh,  joy  !  titled  people — only  landed  gentry,  and  all  that. 
Now  I'm  happier.  I  can  get  along  with  landed  gentry, 


THE    EASTERN    MOON.  345 

and  not  surrender  my  independence  altogether.  But 
titled  people !  How  could  I  bear  the  weight  of  it. 
Now  we  come  down  to  something  personal.  Ah !  we'll 
read  that." 

"  Read  all,"  said  Sophia,  snappishly,  "  if  you're 
going  to  read  any.  I  hate  skipping  about  so." 

"Well,  we  won't  skip  any  more  after  this.  You 
shall  have  everything  Jenkins  has  to  say  about  your 
lodger.  Now  listen.  (I  can't  go  back  among  his  an 
cestors.)  'Leonard  Conyngham  was  born  about  the 
year  18 —  (why  can't  they  be  accurate  on  a  point  so 
vital !)  on  the  family  estate,  near  Mallow.  (I  wonder 
in  what  part  of  Great  Britain  Mallow  is.  I  must  look 
it  up  on  the  map.)  lie  is  one  of  a  large  family ;  one 
brother  has  distinguished  himself  in  the  army,  another 
in  the  navy.  A  third  is  a  prominent  barrister.  T\vo 
of  his  sisters  have  married  into  the  nobility,  one  being 
the  wife  of  Lord  Massy,  and  another  married  to  Sir 
Gerald  Austen.'  (Sophia,  do  you  hear  that!  'It's  a 
very  fine  thing  to  be  brother  in-law.'  I  knew  he  was 
more  than  '  landed  gentry.')" 

Sophia  showed  so  much  irritation  in  her  face  that  I 
suspended  my  pleasantry. 

" '  It  will  be  seen  by  this,  that  our  illustrious  visitor 
is  entitled  to  the  highest  social  consideration,  entirely 
apart  from  his  distinction  as  a  man  of  letters  and  an 
orator.  The  suddenness  with  which  he  attained  his 
present  height  of  popularity  may  be  accounted  for  by 
a  little  retrospect.  These  particulars  have  been  fur 
nished  us  by  one  well  acquainted  with  his  family 
history,  and  may  be  relied  on  as  entirely  accurate. 
Young  Leonard  showed  very  little  of  the  genius  which 
has  since  distinguished  him  during  boyhood  and  early 
15+ 


346  THE    EASTERN    MOOIf. 

youth.  He  graduated  at  Dublin  University  without 
much  distinction  as  a  scholar.  (Why  Dublin  Uni 
versity?  I  should  have  preferred  Oxford,  it  seems  to 
me,  if  I  had  been  a  'landed  gentry.')  His  family  were 
anxious  that  he  should  enter  the  church,  for  which  he 
had  been  designed  from  childhood.  This  he  refused, 
and  an  estrangement  from  them  was  the  result.  He 
then  threw  himself  into  some  political  movement,  with 
more  generosity  of  spirit  than  worldly  wisdom.  The 
country  was  in  its  usual  disturbed  state ;  his  party 
was  unsuccessful  in  its  attempt ;  he  was  obliged  to  flee 
the  country,  and  for  several  years  his  family  were  in 
great  anxiety  about  him.  About  seven  years  ago  he 
returned  from  Australia,  where  he  had  been  laying  up 
the  stores  of  experience  and  adventure  from  which  lie 
feeds  his  marvelous  fancy.  He  then  resumed  his  place 
at  home,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  the  law. 
But  it  may  easily  be  guessed  he  did  not  stay  long 
in  bondage  to  this  exacting  mistress.  He  was  meant 
for  higher  things  than  pleadings  and  practice.  The 
publication  of  his  flrst  book  took  the  public  by  storm. 
His  maiden  speech  in  Parliament,  to  which  he  had  been 
returned,  was  equally  a  bomb-shell.  T\vo  such  gifts 
are  rarely  allotted  to  any  one  man.  At  once  an  orator 
who  can  thrill  crowds  with  the  tire  and  eloquence  o»f 
his  tongue,  and  a  writer,  who  can  hold  them  with  the 
magic  subtlety  of  his  pen,  we  do  not  hesitate  in  saying, 
Leonard  Conyngharn  stands  foremost  among  the  younger 
men  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  has  before  him  a 
future  which  can  only  be  limited  by  his  own  failure 
of  will  and  steady  purpose.'  Hear,  hear !"  I  cried,  lay 
ing  down  the  paper.  "  Sophia,  that's  very  line  writing. 
But  he  is  undoubtedly  a  great  man,  and  as  long  as  he 


THE    EASTERN    MOON.  347 

pays  his  bills  promptly,  I  wouldn't  think  of  turning 
him  away  because  he's  so  distinguished." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  see  so  much  to  laugh 
about,"  said  Sophia,  rather  tartly.  "  Everybody's  pay 
ing  him  all  the  attention  they  know  how." 
!  "Of  course  they  are,  and  they're  quite  right  about 
it.  He  is  a  very  remarkable  sort  of  person,  I  am  sure. 
Here's  a  long  article  in  the  House  Journal.  It  tells 
you  all  about  his  dinner  engagements,  the  receptions 
that  have  been  given  him,  the  on  dits  about  him,  his 
personal  appearance.  Ah  !  it  seems  he  isn't  short  and 
stout.  Hear  this  :  '  He  is  rather  slender,  below  middle 
height.  His  hair  is  dark,  his  eyes  are  very  brilliant, 
rather  deep-set.  His  expression  is  one  of  profound 
melancholy.'.  Think  of  that,  Sophia.  What  if  he  has 
dyspepsia  ?  Perhaps  the  biscuits  don't  agree  with  him. 
Fancy  if  you  are  anyway  responsible  for  that  profound 
melancholy.  Don't  you  think  you'd  better  speak  to 
the  cook  about  it  ?  Isn't  it  possible  that  her  baking 
powders  may  have  alnm  in  them  ?  I  feel  that  you 
cannot  be  'too  careful  with  such  a  great  man  in  the 
house.  But  hear ;  there's  something  else  that's  very 
interesting.  He  is  very  inaccessible,  the  paper  says." 

"The  street  cars  pass  the  house,"  cried  Sophia, 
angrily.  "That  shows  how  much  good  there  is  in 
newspapers." 

"It  doesn't   mean   that,  I   think,   you   know.     It 
means  he  is  hard  to  get  to  go  to  dinners  ;  he  avoids  ' 
people,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  I'm  sure,"  said  Sophia, 
subsiding.  "  It's  no  odds  to  me  how  often  he  goes  out, 
his  dinner's  always  ready  for  him  here.  He  pays  for 
it,  and  he's  entitled  to  it." 


348  THE    EASTERN    MOON. 

"  And  I'm  sure  he  likes  it,  else  he  would  go  out 
oftener,  and  eat  other  people's  dinners,"  I  said,  molli- 
ently.  Sophia  didn't  know  about  that  either,  she  was 
sure. 

"  And  here's  a  melancholy  account  of  a  distin 
guished  family  that  had  a  reception  for  him,  and  he 
wouldn't  go.  The  young  lady  of  the  family  was  so 
heartbroken  she  refused  to  come  down-stairs.  I  wonder 
if  it  was  that  pretty  girl  I  saw  here  in  the  carriage  ? 
And  as  to  the  balls  he  won't  accept,  and  the  breakfasts 
and  the  suppers  and  the  dinners  that  he  will  not  eat, 
really,  it's  a  crying  shame !  They'd  keep  a  poor  fam 
ily  till  the  youngest  baby  came  of  age.  It  shows,  a 
want  of  heart ;  it  shows  a  want  of  principle,  if  one  may 
say  so." 

While  I  was  thus  endeavoring  to  divert  Sophia 
from  her  rheumatism,  Mary  came  to  the  door.  She 
was  blushing  and  looked  excited.  She  handed  Sophia 
two  tickets  and  a  check. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Sophia,  sharply. 

Mary  explained  that  Mr.  Conyngham's  agent  had 
just  called  and  asked  for  her.  He  said  he  wanted  her 
bill  for  the  two  weeks'  board.  She  had  told  him  her 
mistress  was  sick,  and  couldn't  see  him.  Also,  that  she 
never  made  out  bills.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen 
always  sent  the  money  in  when  it  was  due,  and  when 
they  went  away  for  good,  she  gave  'em  a  receipt  in  full 
if  they  wanted  it ;  but  she  wouldn't  be  at  the  pains  to 
make  out  bills  for  people  every  week.  The  agent  said 
it  was  a  mighty  poor  way,  and  she'd  get  in  trouble  if 
she  didn't  look  out ;  but  he  wrote  her  a  check,  and  put 
the  roll  of  bills  back  in  his  pocket.  Then,  when  he 


THE     EASTERN    MOON.  349 

was  going  away,  lie  seemed  to  think  of  something,  and 
turned  back  and  said  : 

•'  Here's  a  couple  of  tickets ;  give  'em  to  your  mis 
tress,  and  tell  her  maybe  she'll  be  well  enough,  by  to 
morrow  night,  to  go  and  hear  Mr.  Conyngham." 

Sophia  looked  almost  pleased  as  she  turned  the  tick 
ets  over  in  her  lingers.  "  Much  good  they'll  do  me," 
she  said.  And  she  told  Mary  a  long  message  to  take  to 
the  laundress,  as  if  she  weren't  gratified  at  all.  But 
when  the  girl  was  gone,  she  handed  the  tickets  to  me, 
and  said : 

"You  must  take  one  of  the  servants  with  you,  and 
go  to-morrow  night."  I  laughed  at  the  idea  and  begged 
her  to  excuse  me.  But  before  the  night  came,  I  found 
she  had  set  her  heart  upon  my  going.  I  resisted  quite 
firmly  at  first.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing  I  did  not  feel 
at  home  in  doing.  1  often  went  out  at  night,  with  a 
servant,  during  a  Mission  every  night  for  nearly  two 
weeks,  and  on  Festivals,  and  at  many  other  times. 
But  this  was  different.  1  should  see  the  world ;  1  did 
not  want  to  go.  Arid  yet  it  was  seliish  to  resist  Sophia, 
who  was  feverishly  set  upon  it ;  and  it  was,  after  all,  a 
thing  which  might  give  me  great  pleasure.  Though  I 
had  taken  the  tone  of  ridiculing  the  august  lodger,  I 
did  not  forget  that  he  had  thrilled  me  deeply,  that  I  had 
often  longed  to  see  him,  to  know  more  of  him,  before 
I  found  him  under  the  some  roof. 

Also,  I  was  very  weary  of  being  in  the  house  so 
much.  Sophia  was  infinitely  more  tiring  than  a  whole 
hospital.  There,  I  had  the  recompense  of  feeling  that 
I  could  give  comfort.  Here,  when  I  had  climbed  up  all 
those  weary  stairs  to  Sophia's  dull  room,  I  was  quite  at 
a  loss  to  know  whether  I  brought  pain  or  pleasure.  On 


350  THE     EASTERN     MOON. 

general  principles  I  continued  to  go  and  do  my  best, 
however.  I  had  a  great  longing  to  go  to  the  hospital ; 
the  sight  of  that  face,  which  I  said  to  myself  again  and 
again  was  not  his,  had  given  me  a  restless  desire  to  go. 
I  might  be  missing  some  chance  which  would  never 
come  back  again.  But  when  I  had  sent  for  the  servants 
and  given  them  their  orders  for  the  day,  and  had 
mounted  to  Sophia's  room,  and  done  what  I  could  for 
her  comfort  and  cheer,  the  day  was  too  far  gone  to  ad 
mit  of  a  journey  to  the  distant  hospital.  I  had  scarcely 
time  to  get  my  usual  walks,  and  my  books  were  effec 
tually  routed,  which  was  no  doubt  a  satisfaction  to  So 
phia,  if  she  knew  it. 

Therefore,  when  the  evening  of  the  lecture  came, 
I  was  more  ready  than  I  should  have  supposed  it  possi 
ble,  to  embrace  the  opportunity  of  getting  a  little  diver 
sion  and  fresh  air. 


CHAPTEE  XXVI. 

THE   LECTURE. 

"What  I  do, 

And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two." 

E.  B.  Browning. 

MARY  was  detailed  to  accompany  me.  Sophia 
was  more  interested  than  she  would  acknowl 
edge  ;  she  wanted  me  to  have  a  carriage ;  she  dictated 
to  Mary  what  she  should  wear,  to  look  at  once  respect 
able  and  menial.  When  we  got  out  into  the  clear, 
frosty,  star-lit  night,  I  wished  that  it  had  been  five 
miles  instead  of  five  blocks  that  we  had  to  walk.  The 
great  man's  carriage  was  standing  at  the  door,  waiting 
for  him ;  therefore  I  dared  not  lose  the  time,  and  we 
walked  directly  to  the  hall.  It  gave  me  a  strange  feel 
ing  to  be  going  in  out  of  that  clear,  still  grandeur  (for 
"  the  streets  were  dumb  with  snow,"  and  the  night 
seemed  silent,  for  a  city  night)  into  the  gay,  gas-lit  place, 
filled  with  bright  faces  and  bright  dresses. 

The  agent  had  paid  Sophia  the  compliment  of 
pretty  fair  seats.  "We  had  to  walk  a  good  way  down 
the  aisle,  now  filling  up  with  chairs,  to  our  places, 
Mary  following  me  with  my  wraps.  The  house  was 
very  full,  and  crowds  were  still  coming  in.  When  we 

[351] 


352  THE    LECTURE. 

had  got  into  our  seats,  I  found  that  we  were  separating 
a  large  party,  or  perhaps  it  was  only  two  parties  who 
happened  to  meet.  Beside  me  was  a  young  girl ;  on 
the  seat  before  her,  a  young  man — very  young  ;  and  a 
line  of  people  in  front  of  us,  who  seemed  to  belong  to 
him ;  and  directly  behind  us,  more,  who  seemed  to 
know  them.  The  way  in  which  they  talked  over  and 
through  us  was  quite  remarkable  to  me ;  they  seemed 
to  think,  because  I  was  not  talking,  I  was  not  hearing. 
The  very  young  man  in  front  leaned  over,  and  talked 
about  the  lecturer  to  the  young  girl,  who  was  impa 
tiently  looking  at  her  watch. 

"  They  say  he  is  always  a  little  late,"  she  said. 

"  That's  his  airs,"  said  the  young  man.  "  People 
will  put  up  with  anything  from  him.  There  never 
was  anything  so  ridiculous  as  the  way  he  is  run  after." 

"  I  don't  blame  anybody,"  said  she,  with  an  abstrac 
ted  air.  "He  is  the  most  perfectly  satisfying  man 
I  ever  met.  When  he  has  been  speaking  to  you,  you 
never  seem  to  lose  the  sound  of  his  voice ;  it  goes  over 
and  over  in  your  ears — it  is  such  utter  music.  And 
his  eyes,  ah!  I  never  felt  as  if  I  were  being  looked 
through  and  through  till  I  met  them.'' 

"  Come,  now !"  cried  a  matter-of-fact  little  voice 
behind  me,  which  indicated  black  eyes  and  a  small, 
trim  figure.  "  Come,  now  !  how  many  minutes  did  he 

talk  to  you  the  other  evening  at  the  A s  ?  For,  I 

suppose,  it's  there  you  met  him." 

"  It  was  necessarily  there,  for  it's  the  only  place  he's 
been,"  she  said,  loftily,  not  giving  the  statistics  called 
for.  "  He  went  there,  because  of  some  family  obliga 
tion.  He  has  only  been  to  a  few  dinners,  and  one  sup- 


THE    LECTURE.  353 

per  at  the  club.  You  can  see  he  hates  society ;  he  is 
suffocated  with  its  inanity." 

"  Bah !"  cried  the  brisk  voice  at  my  shoulder. 

"  Airs,"  said  the  very  young  man  in  front. 

"  As  you  will,"  said  the  young  woman,  who  evident 
ly  courted  misinterpretation.  "  I  don't  suppose  it  con 
cerns  him  or  surprises  hirn  that  everybody  does  not  un 
derstand  him." 

"As  long  as  you,  and  the  eleven  thousand  other 
virgins  do,"  cried  the  little  spitfire  behind  my  chair. 

"  Really,"  said  the  other,  "  I'm  sorry  that  you  take 
it  so  to  heart.  If  he  should  by  any  chance  be  at  the 
F s  this  week,  I'll  manage  to  present  him." 

"  He  would  be  suffocated  ;  don't  think  of  it." 

An  admonitory  and  motherly  voice,  also  behind  me, 
checked  this  sharpness,  in  a  very  low  tone,  and  then 
went  on  aloud. 

"  Have  you  heard  much  about  him  from  the  A s  ? 

One  doesn'  t  attach  much  value  to  what  the  papers  say." 

The  young  aesthetic  person  was  only  too  glad  to  be 
permitted  to  tell  all  she  knew  on  the  subject,  which,  of 
course,  had  the  weight  of  an  authorized  version,  coming 

from  the  A s,  who  were  his  family's  friends.     Her 

statements  did  not  differ  materially  from  the  newspapers 
however,  except  for  the  sun-flower-and-peacock-feather- 
iness  of  the  descriptive  terms.  All  that  I  gathered  that  was 
of  any  fresh  interest,  was  that  his  profound  melancholy, 
his  utter  disillusion,  as  she  called  it,  was  the  result  of  some 
mysterious  occurrence  in  his  youth,  of  which  his  family 
had  not  the  liberty,  or  perhaps,  the  power,  to  speak. 

"  But  does  he  seem  unhappy,  gloomy,  in  ordinary 
life  ?"  asked  the  mother  of  the  sharp  tongue,  over  my 
shoulder. 


354:  TKE     LECTURE. 

"  No-o,  I  can't  say  he  does.  He  makes  jokes  and 
all  that — but  one  sees  the  underlying  bitterness." 

She  of  the  incisive  tongue  gave  a  little  laugh  It 
was  probable  she  would  have  said  something  signally 
unsympathetic,  but  that,  at  that  moment,  we  became 
aware  that  the  vast  audience  was  composing  itself  into 
an  expectant  silence.  The  young  people  about  me  grew 
instantly  absorbed.  I  was  so  cured  of  my  enthusiasm 
by  this  burlesque  of  it  in  others,  that  I  found  more  inter 
est  in  watching  the  young  girl  beside  me,  and  for  a  few 
moments,  I  did  not  look  up  at  the  speaker.  Notwith 
standing  her  aesthetic  affectations,  she  was  quite  genuine 
in  her  admiration;  her  eyes  glowed,  her  breath  came 
quick,  she  bent  forward  to  catch  his  words.  I  wondered 
how  much  of  this  was  the  effect  of  contagion ;  he  was 
simply  the  fashion ;  girls  were  going  mad  about  him,  as 
they  did  about  singers  and  actors ;  they  talked  and  wrote 
and  dreamed  themselves  into  love  with  him.  It  was  a 
curious  study  ;  this  girl,  at  least,  and  the  girl  I  had  seen 
in  the  carriage  window,  were  genuine  about  it.  They 
were  wasting  a  good  deal  of  womanly  feeling  on  a  man 
who,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  wouldn't  give  them  half  a 
thought  for  all  that  they  gave  him.  I  quite  enjoyed 
the  girl's  quickening  color,  as  his  voice  grew  clearer, 
and  met  our  ears  more  distinctly.  I  rather  envied  her 
the  possibility  of  the  emotion. 

Then  I  turned  my  eyes  from  her  with  a  sigh,  and 
slowly  fixed  them  on  the  speaker.  Our  seats  were  a 
good  way  from  him.  I  had  no  glass ;  I  could  hardly 
distinguish  his  features.  I  don't  know  why,  but  after 
he  had  spoken  a  few  minutes  longer,  a  strange  feeling 
came  over  me  ;  the  past  came  back  in  those  vague, 
dumb  yeanlings  that  no  lapse  of  years  can  kill.  I  was 


THE    LECTURE.  355 

not  thinking  of  what  he  said.  I  had  not  yet  given  my 
attention  to  him  and  to  his  subject ;  I  was  not  following 
him.  But  I  was  thinking  of  scenes  and  days  long  past. 
I  was  standing  by  the  waves  and  feeling  the  salt  spray 
on  my  face ;  I  was  sitting  in  the  ruddy  light  of  the 
drift-wood  fire,  and  listening  to  Shamus  O'Brien. 

It  is  impossible  even  now  to  me,  to  tell  the  subject 
of  the  speakers  words.  In  any  intellectual  way,  I  had 
lost  the  thread ;  I  had  not  begun  with  him,  I  was  not 
thinking  with  him.  From  that  I  know  what  an  orator 
he  was,  that  by  and  by,  a  detached  sentence  or  two  he 
uttered  thrilled  me  through  and  through  ;  and  as  lie 
went  on,  I  listened,  entranced  and  breathless  as  the  girl 
beside  me. 

It  was  one  of  the  lower  tones  of  his  voice  that  sent 
a  sudden,  blinding  thought  flaming  through  my  mind. 
I  leaned  forward,  I  tried  to  see  his  face.  I  was  too  far 
away ;  my  agitation  did  not  help  me.  I  could  not  dis 
tinguish  a  feature.  The  glass  of  my  neighbor  was  lying 
in  her  lap.  I  took  it  up,  scarcely  asking  her.  She 
was  too  engrossed  to  do  more  than  glance  impatiently  at 
me,  and  to  look  up  again  at  the  speaker. 

I  turned  the  glass  at  hazard  ;  it  fitted  my  eye,  and  I 
steadied  it  on  his  face.  I  gave  a  low  cry.  The  glass 
fell  from  my  hand. 

By  this  time  the  girl  was  gazing  intently  at  me  ;  for 
the  matter  of  that,  the  others  too. 

"  You  know  him  ?"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

"I  am  ill,"  I  said,  "I — I — must  go  away." 

Mary,  very  much  frightened,  had  half  risen.  Every 
one  was  looking  at  us. 

"  How  can  you  get  out,"  murmured  the  young  girl 


356  THE    LECTURE. 

beside  me ;  "  through  the  aisles  and  all,  it  is  so  crowd-^ 
ed." 

The  lady  behind  me  thrust  a  bottle  of  salts  into  my 
hand.  Mary  held  it  up  to  my  face.  A  few  impatient 
words  from  some  disturbed  people  in  front  of  me 
steadied  me  a  little.  I  made  a  gesture  to  Mary  to  re 
main.  I  might  as  well  be  there  as  anywhere.  I  could 
only  die,  wherever  it  was.  The  horrible  physical 
sensations  that  succeeded  the  sudden  shock  of  recogni 
tion  seemed  to  me  like  death.  The  crowd  terrified  me, 
they  were  so  thick  around  me.  I  felt  that  I  should 
smother  if  they  did  not  give  me  air.  I  seemed  to  feel, 
by  a  cruel  trick  of  memory,  the  same  sickening  sensa 
tions  that  had  overcome  me  in  the  court-room. 

When  last  Bernard  Macnally  and  I  had  been  face  to 
face,  what  a  different  crowd,  what  a  strangely  different 
scene.  All  that  was  the  same  was  I,  who  sat  stunned 
and  silent  then  as  now,  with  faintness  and  tremor,  and 
a  failing  heart.  Ah,  what  a  gulf  rolled  between  us  1 
"What  barriers  had  risen  up !  Not  a  scaffold,  but 
a  throne,  on  which  an  admiring  world  had  put  him ; 
not  death,  but  oblivion ;  not  shame,  but  praise.  Oh, 
that  I  had  found  him  stretched  helpless,  friendless,  pen 
niless,  upon  a  pauper's  bed !  Ah,  that  that  had  been 
the  face,  not  this ;  that  that  had  been  the  scene,  not 
this.  Its  garish  lights,  its  thunders  of  applause,  its 
meltings  of  emotion,  how  terribly  far  they  all  seemed 
to  push  me  out — out,  shivering,  into  the  darkness  and 
oblivion  from  which  I  had  come  in !  I  longed  to  creep 
away  and  hide  myself.  But  I  could  not  go.  Cruel 
and  hard,  the  crowd  hemmed  me  in,  unheeding.  I  and 
my  wound  were  things  of  the  past.  I  must  take  my 
self  away ;  here  there  was  nothing  but  the  stir  of  grand 


THE    LECTURE.  357 

emotion,  but  the  glitter  of  high  pomp,  but  the  thrill  of 
mighty  genius.  I  must  take  myself  away.  I  was  al 
together  out  of  place.  I — why  had  I  not  died  ?  Why 
had  I  nourished  up  my  poor  little  life  of  peace,  to  have 
it  killed  again,  with  no  possible  healing  to  come  after. 
I  lived,  and  from  now,  only  to  suffer,  only  to  cause  him 
suffering  if  he  ever  knew  it.  His  wound  was  healed ; 
his  life  was  at  its  brilliant  noon  ;  all  the  reparation  I 
could  make  him  was  to  keep  out  of  his  sight,  never  to 
recall  to  him  the  fearful  suffering  that  I  had  been  the 
means  of  bringing  on  his  life.  I  had,  unwitting,  done 
him  worse  wrong  than  his  worst  enemy  could  have 
done  him.  Now,  witting,  I  must  have  the  courage  not 
to  do  him  any  more. 

The  face  that  I  had  seen  had  not  been  one  to  pity. 
Pity  !  I  had  spent  ten  years  of  pity  on  him  ;  night  and 
day,  one  prayer  had  underlaid  all  thought,  all  work,  all 
speech  ;  a  prayer  for  mercy  on  him,  whether  he  should 
be  among  the  living  or  the  dead.  Now — God  help 
me  ! — I  was  the  one  to  pity.  His  face,  changed  in  a 
subtile  sort  of  way,  older  and  deeper-marked,  was 
warmed  with  the  glow  of  genius,  strong  with  a  sense  of 
power.  Where  was  my  place  now — mine — who  had 
been  bound  to  him  with  such  bonds — yoked  to  him 
with  the  memory  of  such  suffering  ?  Ah,  my  place  ! 
It  was  not  anywhere  in  the  compass  of  his  vision.  If 
there  was  an  humble  spot  far  away  out  of  his  sight  and 
the  sight  of  those  who  surrounded  him  with  their  adu 
lation,  I  might  kneel  on  and  pray  for  him.  But  it 
seemed  to  me,  in  that  first  moment  of  bitterness,  that 
I  had  no  longer  any  need  to  pray  for  him.  He  had 
all,  he  was  all.  God  had  more  than  answered  all  my 
prayers.  By  and  by  I  should  be  thankful ;  God  would 


358  THE    LECTURE. 

be  patient ;  I  could  not  be  thankful  now.  I  knew  it 
would  all  be  right  in  time.  But,  oh !  for  the  narrow 
cot  in  the  dreary  hospital  ward !  Why  had  not  that 
prayer  been  answered  2  Why — why —  ?  Oh,  my  Lord, 
bear  with  me ! 

At  last  they  were  going;  the  people  drew  long 
breaths  after  the  tension  of  the  past  hour ;  murmurs 
of  deep  feeling,  a  flush  on  almost  every  cheek,  life  in 
the  dullest  eyes,  all  paid  their  involuntary  tribute  to 
the  voice  whose  echoes  were  yet  in  their  ears.  Even 
the  lad  before  me  seemed  sobered  and  less  trifling  for 
the  moment.  The  young  girl  beside  me  turned  her 
shining  eyes  upon  me ;  she  had  not  lost  thought  of 
me,  I  knew. 

"  You  are  better  ?"  she  said. 

"  A  little.  It  will  be  all  right  when  I  can  get  into 
the  air." 

But  instead  of  getting  better,  it  was  getting 
worse.  The  stir,  the  noise  about  me,  the  necessity  for 
physical  effort,  all  brought  back  my  faintness.  The 
lady  behind  me  saw  my  pallor,  and  leaned  over,  and 
talked  encouragingly  to  me.  But  the  young  girl  had 
but  one  idea  ;  what  was  her  hero  to  me  that  the  sight 
of  him  had  overcome  me  so  ?  She  remained  in  her 
seat,  though  her  companions  had  risen. 

"  You — you  have  heard  Mr.  Conyngham  before  ?" 
she  said,  with  the  directness  and  ignorance  of  youth. 

"  She  is  too  ill  to  talk,"  said  the  older  lady,  with  a 
glance  at  my  tortured  face. 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,"  she  said,  with  the  persistence 
of  a  one-idead  person,  "  that  she  knew  him,  and  that 
suddenly  seeing  him  had  made  her  ill.  Was  it  so  ?" 


THE    LECTURE.  359 

"  I  want  to  get  into  the  air,"  I  said,  turning  from 
her,  and  struggling  to  my  feet. 

The  elder  lady  gave  me  her  hand,  and  her  kind  aid. 
Mary,  excited,  and  rather  helpless,  kept  the  crowd  off 
on  the  other  side.  We  got  out,  I  don't  know  how. 
The  air  revived  me. 

"  It's  horrid,"  I  said  to  the  kind  lady,  when  she  was 
satisfied  to  leave  me,  "  the  feeling  faint  in  a  crowd.  It 
has  happened  to  me  several  times  in  my  life.  I  am  so 
sorry  that  I  had  to  trouble  and  disturh  you." 

I  hoped  she  would  tell  the  girl,  and  make  her 
know  I  had  been  often  so  before.  What  if  she  met 
him  again  and  told  him  of  the  incident  ? 

The  stars  shone  down  cold  and  keen  upon  that  mis 
erable  Walk.  When  we  were  just  nearing  the  house, 
a  carriage  drew  up  with  rush  and  bustle,  at  the  other 
entrance.  A  man  sprang  from  the  box,  rang  the  bell, 
and  returned,  and  opened  the  door.  I  caught  sight  of 
Macnally  as  he  stepped  out  and  passed  quickly  into  the 
house.  It  was  several  minutes  before  they  heard  our 
ring. 

"  They're  so  taken  up  with  waiting  on  the  other 
door,  and  you  look  fit  to  drop,"  said  Mary,  pulling 
again  at  the  bell.  "  They  might  attend  to  somebody 
else  but  him,  I  think.  But  to  be  sure  it  was  beautiful, 
wasn't  it  ?  Ah — there's  that  boy." 

And,  to  hurry  him,  she  pounded  a  little  on  the  panel. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  COENEE  EOOMS. 

"Love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive  ; 
And  bending  o'er,  with  soul-transfusing  eyes, 
And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother-dove, 
Woos  back  the  fleeting  spirit,  and  half  supplies  ; 
Tims  Love  repays  to  Hope  whatHope  first  gave  to  Love." 

Coleridge. 

THE  next  morning  I  did  not  dare  to  go  up  to  Sophia. 
The  dark  circle  round  my  eyes,  and  my  white  face, 
would  not  escape  her  criticism.  I  must  make  up  my 
mind  what  I  meant  to  say  before  I  saw  her.  So  I  sent 
her  word  that  I  had  a  headache,  and  that  when  I  felt 
well  enough  I  would  come  up.  I  wandered  about  my 
room-  aimlessly  and  feverishly.  All  the  little  occupa 
tions  and.  interests  of  my  daily  life  wearied  me.  I 
tried  to  pull  the  dead  leaves  from  my  flowers  and  to 
give  them  water,  to  feed  my  bird,  to  put  the  books  and 
ornaments  in  the  order  that  pleased  my  eye.  It  was 
generally  a  happy  hour's  employment,  with  the  sun 
pouring  in  upon  my  pretty  room.  To-day  I  threw 
myself  down  in  my  chair  and  knew  that  it  would  be 
an  interest  no  more.  There  was  one  interest ;  what  was 
that  ?  Listening  for  the  opening  and  shutting  of  that 
other  door,  waiting  hidden  behind  the  curtains  for  his 
going  out.  I  hated  myself,  but  on  such  things  as  these 
[360] 


THE    COENEE    BOOMS.  361 

my  interests  must  centre  while  the  same  roof  covered 
us.  I  knew  myself  so  well ;  I  had  gone  through  so 
much.  I  knew  what  had  been  and  what  would  be, 
with  a  grinding  certainty  that  left  small  space  for  hope. 

At  last  he  went  out,  passing  out  upon  the  sidewalk, 
but  a  few  feet  from  where  I  watched  him.  He  walked 
with  a  firm,  quick  tread.  His  face  had  a  pre-occupied 
expression,  but  I  failed  to  find  on  it  the  melancholy 
that  was  ascribed  to  it.  Yon  would  have  called  him 
still  a  young  man.  The  slightness  and  grace  of  his 
figure,  and  the  way  he  carried  his  head,  were  sure  notes 
of  young  manhood.  He  wore  no  beard.  The  lower 
part  of  his  face  wTas  firm,  almost  firmer  than  one  liked. 
I  should  have  said  he  had  forgotten  how  to  laugh, 
though  he  might  still  know  how  to  smile.  The  expres 
sion  of  his  mouth  was  different  from  of  old,  more 
changed  than  the  expression  of  his  eyes.  It  was  a 
large,  though  well-formed  mouth,  with  an  upper  lip 
that  curled  a  little,  though  it  wras  not  very  short.  In 
other  days  there  had  been  the  greatest  sweetness  in 
the  curves  and  movements  of  his  mouth ;  there  now,  if 
anywhere,  was  the  look  of  melancholy  of  which  they 
talked.  His  face  was  always  colorless ;  his  nose  was 
very  straight  and  perfect ;  his  eyes  seemed  to  me  much 
deeper  set,  and  more  shaded  by  heavy  brows,  than  they 
had  been  when  I  had  known  them  first.  His  broad, 
high  forehead  was  very  white,  the  short-cropped  hair 
that  scarcely  admitted  of  a  parting  had  touches  of  gray 
all  through  it. 

After  he  had  walked  quickly  out  of  sight,  with  the 
clear,  fresh  morning  air  in  his  face,  I  resolutely  set  my 
self  to  find  some  occupation.  I  sent  for  the  servants, 
as  usual,  and  gave  them  the  orders  which  the  day 
10 


362  THE    CORNER    ROOMS. 

required.  I  went  to  the  store-room,  and  gave  ont  the 
stores  they  needed.  I  heard  their  complaints,  and  un 
dertook  to  convey  to  Sophia  whatever  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  solve  without  her.  I  had  never  loved  these 
details,  but  since  Sophia's  illness  I  had  found  a  certain 
pleasure  in  doing  something  distasteful  for  one  who 
had  served  me  so  long  and  so  unselfishly.  Now,  even 
that  was  gone ;  it  was  all  hard  duty,  and  I  hated  it. 

When  there  was  nothing  else  to  occupy  me,  I  started 
slowly  up  the  stairs.  I  knew,  sooner  or  later,  I  must 
face  Sophia.  I  should  not  gain  courage  or  cunning  by 
delay.  When  I  reached  the  second-story  hall,  I  paused 
to  look  out  a  window.  What  should  I  say  to  Sophia, 
if  she  asked  me  to  describe  him  ;  how  dissemble  my 
emotion  if  she  made  me  talk  about  him  ?  The  door  of 
a  room  stood  open  ;  to  gain  quiet  and  time  for  thought, 
I  wandered  in.  This  suite  I  knew  was  vacant.  I 
pushed  the  door  shut,  and  sat  down  in  the  window. 

My  parlor,  as  I  have  said,  was  the  corner  room  of  the 
corner  house.  This  room  was  its  counterpart  on  the 
floor  above,  with  a  hall  bed-room  adjoining.  At  one 
time  these  rooms  were  let  as  one  suite  with  those  Mac- 
nally  now  occupied,  which  adjoined  them,  in  the 
avenue  house.  The  connections  between  the  houses, 
which  Sophia  had  had  cut  originally,  were  one  through 
the  lower  halls,  at  the  head  of  the  basement  stairs,  and 
another  at  the  top,  through  two  of  the  fourth-floor 
rooms.  But  when  a  large  second-story  suite  was 
wanted,  several  years  after,  she  had  had  a  door  cut 
from  the  parlor  of  the  corner  room  into  the  front  bed 
room  of  the  house  on  the  avenue.  It  had  been  used  for 
a  year  or  two  by  the  family  who  took  it  then.  After 
they  left,  she  found  the  rooms  rented  more  profitably 


THE    CORNER    ROOMS.  363 

in  smaller  suites,  so  the  door  was  fastened  up ;  and  an 
extra  closet  being  desired  in  the  bedroom  of  the  house 
on  the  avenue,  she  had  one  built  in  front  of  the  door. 
All  these  circumstances  came  into  my  mind,  as  I  sat  by 
the  window.  I  had  a  curiosity  to  know  whether  the 
door  had  been  nailed  up  or  not.  I  turned  the  knob — 
it  was  locked.  I  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  nailed 
till  it  was  unlocked.  Sophia's  key-basket  was  in  my 
room.  I  don't  exactly  know  what  I  meant  to  do.  I 
went  down-stairs  and  got  it,  refusing  to  think. 

When  I  came  up,  I  closed  the  door  that  led  into 
the  hall,  went  across  the  room,  and  pushed  away  a  sofa 
that  stood  against  the  door.  The  key  fitted  readily  into 
the  lock,  and  turned.  I  pushed  the  door ;  it  yielded — 
it  was  not  nailed.  I  stopped  a  moment  to  think.  I 
knew  there  was  no  one  in  the  rooms  occupied  by  Mac- 
nally.  The  last  two  weeks  had  shown  that  his  invari 
able  practice  was  to  go  out  between  eleven  and  twelve, 
and  not  to  come  back  before  five.  I  knew  the  servant 
had  arranged  his  rooms,  and  had  gone  out  of  them  ;  I 
heard  her  in  another  part  of  the  house  at  work.  I 
don't  know  why  I  wanted  to  go  ;  it  was  nothing;  there 
was  no  harm.  I  would  go  in.  I  pushed  the  door 
open.  A  piece  of  muslin  had  been  hung  over  the  door, 
under  the  pegs  which  were  nailed  across  the  top.  It 
was  perfectly  dark  ;  the  closet-door  was  shut.  I  opened 
it  carefully,  and  listened.  The  room  was  vacant — the 
only  sound  was  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  Then  I  took 
out  the  key  of  the  corner  room,  and  dropped  it  in  my 
pocket,  and  pulled  it  shut  after  me ;  and  then,  with  a 
beating  heart,  pushed  open  the  closet-door,  and  found 
myself  in  the  rooms  occupied  by  Macnally.  My  iirst 


364  THE    CORNER    EOOMS. 

care  was  to  go  across  the  room,  and  quickly  slip  the 
bolts  of  both  the  doors  that  led  into  the  hall. 

Then  I  stood  still,  and  tried  to  control  my  agitation, 
and  to  look  about  me.  The  room  used  as  a  parlor  was 
large,  with  two  wide  windows  looking  on  the  avenue, 
where  the  morning  sun  streamed  in.  The  fire-place 
was  on  the  side  of  the  room  adjoining  the  next  house 
beyond.  The  bedroom  was  separated  from  the  parlor 
by  large,  double  doors,  which  were,  however,  kept 
open  ;  and  curtains,  now  drawn  back,  hung  before  the 
entrance.  The  furniture  was  unobjectionable,  the  car 
pet  dull  and  unobtrusive.  Everything  was  in  scrupu 
lously  neat  order ;  but  it  seemed  the  dreariest  and  most 
unhoinelike  place.  It  looked  like  a  man's  room — a 
man  en  voyage,  too.  On  one  side  of  the  table  lay  a 
heap  of  newspapers ;  on  the  other  side,  a  heap  of 
books;  in  the  middle,  a  heavy  portfolio,  tightly 
strapped.  On  the  mantel-piece  stood  a  box  of  cigars 
and  a  match-safe.  The  fire  had  been  raked  down,  and 
put  out,  and  freshly  arranged  to  light.  The  chairs 
stood  with  their  backs  to  the  wall.  It  was  a  dreary 
place.  The  bedroom  (but  I  merely 'glanced  at  it)  was 
as  orderly  and  as  dull.  A  handsome  dressing-case,  with 
brass  lettering — L,  B.  M.  C. — upon  it,  stood  on  the 
bureau ;  two  trunks  stood  in  prominent  places ;  the 
wardrobe  doors  were  shut ;  the  bed  well  made,  with 
snowy  linen ;  it  was  anything  but  a  room  that  belonged 
to  anybody.  It  was  a  room  to  stay  in  for  as  short  a 
time  as  possible,  and  to  go  away  from  without  a  feeling 
of  regret. 

And  this  was  the  sort  of  life  to  which  he  was  con 
demned,  a  man  with  the  sensibilities,  the  tastes,  the  af 
fections  which  make  home  dear.  But  for  the  love  that  he 


THE    CORNER    KOOMS.  365 

had  spent  on  me,  but  for  the  fate  that  had  linked  him 
with  my  terrible  sorrow,  he  need  not  have  been  a  wan 
derer,  a  homeless  man.  I  knew  he  would  bear  that 
scar  upon  his  heart  forever.  I  knew  he  would  never 
lift  a  child  in  his  arms  without  a  pang.  I  knew  fire 
side  delights  and  merriment  would  always  give  his  heart 
an  ache. 

There  came  a  subtle  little  solace  in  a  thought  I  had ; 
there  was  something  I  might  do  yet,  beside  say  my 
prayers  for  him.  I  might,  for  the  weeks  or  months  he 
staid  here,  make  these  rooms  something  more  like 
home.  With  poor  little  natures  like  mine,  there  is 
such  comfort  in  having  something  to  do,  when  sorrow 
presses.  It  is  so  terrible  to  fight  out  a  sorrow,  a  tempta 
tion,  with  your  hands  idle  in  your  lap.  My  heart 
revived  when  I  looked  about  the  room,  and  thought  of 
all  that  might  be  done  to  make  it  pretty.  I  had  a 
plan  ;  it  matured  in  all  its  details  with  such  rapidity.  It 
never  would  be  found  out,  for  the  chambermaid  was  a 
mere  machine,  with  no  more  powers  of  observation  than 
a  Universal  Wringer.  She  would  never  ask  how  the 
things  came  there.  She  would  dust  them  and  put  them 
back  with  equal  interest,  whether  they  were  mummies 
or  royal  Worcester  porcelain.  As  for  Macnally  him 
self,  he  would  feel  them — like  a  man,  perhaps,  he  would 
not  notice  them. 

It  must  be  done  gradually.  To-day,  it  would  suffice 
to  bring  up  the  lovely  table-cover  from  my  own  room, 
to  put  a  shade  over  the  lamp  upon  the  table,  to  put 
away  on  the  book-shelves  all  but  the  morning  papers 
and  two  or  three  books  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
freshly  read ;  to  fill  a  glass  with  violets  and  put  them 
on  the  mantel-piece,  where  they  would  show  their  dim 


366  THE    CORNER    ROOMS. 

outline  in  the  mirror,  and  shed  their  delicate  perfume 
on  the  air.  I  pulled  the  chairs  about  in  more  becom 
ing  attitudes ;  I  moved  the  great  chair  up  before  the 
fire ;  I  brought  a  footstool  from  the  other  room,  and 
put  before  it ;  I  draped  the  curtains  with  a  different 
expression.  It  did  not  look  like  the  same  room  ;  and 
yet  the  changes  were  so  slight,  they  would  be  felt,  not 
noticed — by  a  man,  at  least.  I  longed  to  see  the  effect 
when  the  fire  should  be  burning,  and  the  shaded  lamp 
shedding  out  its  soft  light.  But  that  I  could  only  see 
in  fancy.  My  work  done,  I  slid  back  the  bolts  of  the 
two  doors  that  led  into  the  hall,  and  went  back  quickly 
into  the  closet,  which  I  examined  carefully.  It  was 
not  used,  save  for  a  gun-case  in  one  corner,  and  an 
empty  portmanteau  in  another.  There  was  a  second 
large  closet  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  a  ward 
robe.  This  one,  apparently,  was  not  needed,  for  the 
man  of  fame  was  evidently  not  a  man  of  luxurious  pre 
tension.  The  sheet,  when  it  was  dropped  inside  over 
the  door  below  the  pegs,  looked  like  the  wall.  No  one 
would  think  of  questioning  it,  on  a  cursory  glance.  I 
listened  well  that  the  corner  parlor  was  empty,  pushed 
open  the  door,  and  got  safely  in  the  room,  locked  the 
door,  and  moved  the  sofa  back. 

Now  I  felt  stimulated  enough  to  go  to  see  Sophia. 
I  felt  quite  equal  to  my  part.  I  found  her  more  fret 
ful  than  usual,  because  anxious  about  me.  I  had  quite 
a  high  color  on  my  cheeks,  and  she  suspected  either  de 
ception  or  a  fever — she  was  divided  between  the  two. 
She  took  hold  of  my  hand  unexpectedly  as  I  was  ar 
ranging  her  pillow,  and  decided  it  was  fever. 

"  I  shall  get  up  to-morrow,"  she  said  angrily,  "  doc- 


THE    CORNER    ROOMS.  367 

tor  or  no  doctor.  I'm  not  the  kind  to  lie  still  and  let 
other  people  do  my  work.  I'll  get  up  if  it  kills  me." 

Heaven  forbid  !  I  thought,  as  my  heart  sank.  What 
should  I  do  if  she  did  get  up  ?  I  tried  to  persuade  her 
I  had  nothing  to  do  that  tired  me.  "  If  I  weren't  doing 
this  I  should  be  going  to  the  hospital." 

Then  I  did  not  get  exercise  enough  ;  I  was  used  to 
the  frssli  air.  I  promised  her  I  would  go  out  every 
day  to  walk.  I  would  begin  that  very  afternoon.  I 
would  have  promised  her  anything ;  my  heart  was  in 
my  throat ;  what  if  she  should  persist  in  getting  up ! 
She  didn't  say  she  wouldn't,  but  I  hoped  she  was  a  lit 
tle  less  firm  about  it. 

"  How  about  the  lecture  ?"  she  said  suddenly,  turn 
ing  her  eyes  full  on  me. 

"  Didn't  Mary  tell  you  ?"  I  said ;  "  the  crowd  and 
the  close  air  and  everything  made  me  faint  at  first. 
And  after  that  I  couldn't  pay  much  attention.  I  was 
afraid  I  should  be  faint  again  and  have  to  go  out,  and 
how  I  could  have  done  that  I  can't  imagine,  for  the 
aisles  were  crowded ;  you  never  saw  such  a  crush.  I 
don't  believe  there  was  standing  room  for  another  per 
son.  The  audience  seemed  perfectly  carried  away  with 
him.  He  has  a  wonderful  voice.  I  wish  I  could  have 
listened  to  him  attentively,  but  when  once  one  gets  the 
idea  that  one's  going  to  faint,  it's  all  over  with  one's 
listening." 

"  What  does  he  look  like  ?"  she  said,  with  her  eyes 
still  on  my  face. 

"  We  hadn't  seats  near  enough  to  see  his  face  with 
anything  like  distinctness.  I  hadn't  a  glass.  I  bor 
rowed  one  from  the  lady  next  me,  but  I  only  kept  it 
for  a  minute.  There  isn't  much  satisfaction  in  a  glass 


368  THE    COENEE    EOOMS. 

if  it  isn't  fitted  to  your  eye ;  turning  and  twisting  and 
lengthening  and  shortening ;  sometimes  I  think  it's 
rather  worse  than  none  at  all." 

"  Then  you  didn't  see  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  saw  him,  just  a  glance.  I  should  say  he 
looked  like  the  descriptions  of  him  in  the  papers.  I 
should  say  his  face  must  be  very  fine,  if  you  could 
watch  it  while  he  spoke.  Next  time  the  agent  pre 
sents  you  with  some  tickets,  I  hope  he'll  have  the 
grace  to  give  you  better  seats." 

"  Next  time  I'll  go  myself.  You're  a  poor  hand  to 
do  anything  but  read  books  and  go  to  hospitals." 

I  could  not  tell  whether  she  had  any  suspicion  of 
the  truth.  She  always  had  suspicions,  but  they  were 
frequently  quite  wide  of  the  mark.  1  knew  she  dis 
trusted  me,  and  felt  there  was  something  hidden,  but  I 
hoped  it  was  that  she  fancied  I  was  more  ill  than  I  ad 
mitted,  or  that  something  in  the  house  had  gone  wrong, 
that  I  was  keeping  from  her. 

The  result  of  her  suspicions  and  her  f  rettings  was,  she 
was  much  more  ill  before  the  day  was  over,  and  put 
herself  back  several  weeks  in  her  recovery.  It  was 
growing  no  easy  task  to  soothe  and  please  her.  She 
worried  about  everything,  wrhether  it  were  doing  well 
or  ill.  She  would  have  dismissed  every  one  of  the  ser 
vants,  if  I  had  not  interfered.  They  were  all  excellent 
in  their  way,  and  did  their  work  with  surprising  fidel 
ity,  considering  how  much  they  were  left  to  themselves. 

But  the  most  fruitful  source  of  anxiety  was  the 
standing  empty  of  that  second-story  corner  suite  of 
rooms.  Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  to  her  since 
she  took  the  houses.  Here  it  was  the  first  of  Decem 
ber,  and  one  of  her  best  suites  of  rooms  bringing  her  in 


THE    CORNER    ROOMS.  369 

nothing.  At  this  rate  she  couldn't  pay  the  expenses  of 
the  house ;  she  was  running  behind  every  month ; 
something  must  be  done. 

It  was  in  vain  I  assured  her  that  she  was  making 
money  every  month ;  that  I  was  keeping  her  accounts 
with  all  the  care  I  could,  and  that  I  knew  there  was 
not  a  cent  owing,  and  a  comfortable  amount  on  hand. 
And  that  she  ought  to  be  very  thankful  to  be  getting 
on  so  well,  when  she  was  not  able  to  look  after  things 
herself. 

That  gave  her  no  comfort.  Something  must  be 
done  about  it.  I  must  put  an  advertisement  in  the 
papers.  I  remonstrated.  It  took  from  the  dignity  of 
her  house  to  advertise  the  rooms ;  she  had  never  done 
such  a  thing  before.  It  would  be  a  direct  loss  of  pres 
tige.  Then  I  must  write  for  her  to  the  British  Consul, 
and  to  one  or  two  of  her  former  patrons.  That  I  en 
gaged  to  do,  devoutly  hoping  that  they  wouldn't  know 
of  anybody. 

Those  rooms  once  occupied,  my  plans  must  fall 
totally  to  the  ground.  Even  if  I  could  get  a  pass-key 
to  enter  from  the  hall  into  Macnally's  rooms,  I  was  not 
mad  enough  to  run  such  risks.  I  never  went  into  the 
other  house,  nor  into  any  rooms  but  my  own,  and  any 
servant  meeting  me  on  the  stairs  would  have  cause  to 
wonder  what  had  brought  me  there. 

My  pretty  bubble  danced  along  the  ground  ;  much  as 
it  pleased  my  fancy  and  soothed  my  dreary  hours,  I  could 
but  see  how  little  chance  there  was  that  it  could  please 
and  soothe  me  long.  When  Sophia  got  out  of  her  room 
it  would  vanish,  or,  if  the  corner  rooms  were  taken,  it 
was  gone.  But  the  more  fragile,  the  dearer  it  became. 
16* 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

CONSTRAINED    TO  HEAR. 

"  Or  is  it  over  ?  art  them  dead  ? 

Dead  !  and  no  warning  shiver  ran 
Across  my  heart,  to  say  thy  thread 
Of  life  was  cut,  and  closed  thy  span  1 

"  Could  from  earth's  ways  that  figure  slight 

Be  lost,  and  I  not  feel  'twas  so  ? 
Of  that  fresh  voice  the  gay  delight 
Fail  from  earth's  air,  and  I  not  know  ?" 

Matthew  Arnold. 

"WEEK  had  passed.  Every  day  I  had  been  in 
Macnally's  rooms.  By  twelve  o'clock  they  were 
in  order,  and  the  servant  was  out  of  them,  and  did  not 
come  near  them  again,  till  she  came  in  to  light  the  fire 
at  five,  before  his  return.  I  had  full  liberty,  but  I 
could  not  feel  safe,  or  anything  but  agitated  and  uneasy. 
"When  my  own  rooms  were  locked,  it  was  understood  I 
had  gone  out,  and  no  one  was  troubled  as  to  where  I 
went.  As  I  was  entitled  to  frequent  the  hall  and  stair 
case  of  the  corner  house,  on  my  way  to  my  sleeping- 
room,  which  was*  on  the  second  floor,  no  one  had  cause 
for  speculation  if  they  met  me  there.  Mr.  Conyng- 
ham's  notes  and  cards  and  letters  were  always  kept  by 
Buttons,  and  presented  to  him  in  a  bunch  when  he  had 
come  in  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  rooms  were  rarely 
entered  through  the  day. 

The  rooms  had  improved  under  my  agitated  hands. 
A  stand  of  plants  was  in  one  window,  an  odd-looking 


CONSTRAINED    TO    HEAR.  371 

little  writing-table  in  the  other.  A  better  nig  lay  be 
fore  the  grate ;  on  the  mantelpiece  stood  an  odd  India 
vase,  always  filled  with  flowers  which  looked  at  them 
selves  in  the  mirror.  On  the  other  side  of  Macnally's 
little  travelling  clock  I  put  a  low  brass  candlestick  with 
a  red  candle  in  it,  and  beside  it  a  brass  match-box  with 
a  serpent  on  the  lid.  His  books  increased  every  day. 
I  put  them  in  order  on  the  shelves.  I  saw  with  satis 
faction  that  he  had  taken  more  books  out  of  his  trunks, 
and  added  them  to  the  others,  and  that  he  brought  out 
a  handsome  inkstand,  and  seemed  to  be  settling  himself 
a  little  into  place. 

The  table  now  pleased  me.  He  dined  on  it,  so  all 
the  things  had  to  be  taken  off  at  meals,  and  therefore 
there  could  be  but  few.  But  the  cover  was  rich-toned 
and  soft,  and  a  pleasure  to  the  eye.  The  lamp  was 
solid  and  simple  ;  a  couple  of  books  always  lay  on  it, 
the  two  or  three  I  knew,  by  instinct,  that  he  was  read 
ing,  and  a  paper  knife,  a  new  magazine,  and  a  bowl  of 
blue  cloisonne  for  the  day's  harvest  of  cards  and  notes 
of  invitation.  The  table  stood  opposite  the  fire-place, 
the  wide  easy-chair  between ;  it  seemed  to  me  there 
must  be  an  alluring  suggestion  of  quiet  evenings,  and 
easy,  unhurried  mornings. 

The  houses  opposite  were  low;  the  morning  sun 
poured  in  at  the  windows  through  the  soft,  pretty 
hangings.  I  took  care  that  the  lighting  of  the  fire 
should  never  be  forgotten  in  the  afternoon  at  five. 
Mary  was  most  trustworthy,  but  every  morning,  when 
I  gave  my  orders,  I  reiterated,  "  Never  forget  to  take  up 
Mrs.  Graham's  tea  at  five  o'clock,  and  to  stop  on  your 
way  and  light  the  fire  in  the  second  story  front  rooms." 

I  don't  believe  she  ever  forgot  it.  I  often  heard 
the  crackle  and  the  splutter  of  the  coal  from  the  corner 


372  CONSTRAINED    TO     HEAK. 

room,  where  I  liad  paused  to  listen  if  my  orders  were 
strictly  carried  out. 

I  had  strange  feelings  those  stolen  moments  that  I 
spent  there,  glancing  at  the  books  that  he  had  just  laid 
down,  touching  the  chairs,  the  furniture  that  he  had 
touched  an  hour  before  ;  smelling  the  scent  of  his  just 
burned-out  cigar ;  turning  over  the  cards  and  notes  that 
his  eye  had  just  passed  over.  They  were  strange,  I 
cannot  say  happy,  moments.  I  hated  deception.  I 
doubted  sometimes  if  it  were  right  or  wrong.  If  it 
were  wrong,  it  could  only  be  as  an  injury  to  me,  if  ever 
any  one  should  know.  There  could  be  no  moral  wrong, 
and  for  the  motive  that  had  moved  me  to  it,  and  the 
hope  that  I  had  brightened  even  a  few  hours  for  him, 
I  was  willing  to  bear  all  the  criticism  that  might  fall 
on  me,  if  ever  it  were  known.  But  the  constant 
watching  against  discovery,  the  constant  agitation  that 
contact  with  these  inanimate  things  brought  me,  made 
my  life  anything  but  one  of  peace.  I  suppose  my  face 
showed  my  restlessness  and  damaged  health.  Sophia 
watched  it  narrowly  and  fretted  herself  worse  every 
day  about  me. 

The  day  of  which  I  speak  had  been  a  very  de 
ranged  one  in  the  house.  Mr.  Conyngham  had  begun 
the  contrarieties  by  going  out  an  hour  later  than  his 
ordinary  custom.  That  had  disappointed  the  maid  of 
the  hour  she  usually  gave  to  the  arrangement  of  his 
rooms.  Then  Mrs.  Graham,  a  very  exacting  young 
matron,  who  had  the  third -floor  rooms,  had  had  a 
luncheon-party,  and  had  taken  the  time  of  all  the  ser 
vants  she  could  lay  hands  upon.  Sophia  probably 
would  have  seen  justice  done  ;  but  I  had  no  authority 
to  interfere.  At  three  o'clock,  Mr.  Conyngham's 
rooms  were  still  untouched.  At  half -past  three,  the 


CONSTRAINED     TO     HEAR.  373 

maid  rushed  hurriedly  through  them  ;  and  at  four,  left 
them  superficially  arranged,  and  went  to  do  the  rest  of 
her  neglected  work.  The  old  lady  who  had  the  back 
rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  the  corner  house  was  en 
raged  that  the  cleaning  of  her  windows  had  been  neg 
lected  on  account  of  the  irregular  festival  of  Mrs.  Gra 
ham.  She  sat  all  day  with  her  doors  open,  to  waylay 
the  chambermaid,  who  had  refused  to  come  to  her 
when  she  sent  her  word  about  the  windows.  While 
her  door  was  open,  and  she  was  on  guard  just  inside, 
I  could  not  get  into  the  corner  room.  I  had  some 
fresh  flowers  to  put  there,  and  a  waste-paper  basket 
that  I  had  been  embroidering.  I  was  most  impatient 
of  her  vigilant  watch. 

It  was  half-past  four  when  the  arrival  of  a  visitor 
obliged  her  to  descend  from  the  watch-tower.  I  took 
the  opportunity  to  go  into  the  corner  room,  and  through 
the  closet  to  the  other  rooms.  There  I  found  more  to 
do  than  I  had  thought ;  the  maid  had  left  things  in 
very  indifferent  condition.  I  hurried  through  the 
arrangement  of  the  flowers,  and  restored  things  to  order 
as  quickly  as  I  could ;  but,  doing  my  very  best,  it  took 
a  good  many  minutes.  The  room  was  a  little  chilly.  I 
knew  Mary  was  still  up-stairs,  for  I  heard  her  voice 
distinctly  talking  with  the  Grahams'  waiter.  The  fl re 
would  not  be  lighted  if  I  did  not  do  it.  I  struck  a 
match  ;  in  a  few  moments  it  was  blazing  cheerfully. 
I  went  to  put  the  waste-paper  basket  under  the  little 
writing-table  in  the  window  ;  as  I  did  it,  I  glanced  out. 
The  carriage  that  Mr.  Conyngham  always  came  home 
in  was  driving  from  the  door.  lie  was  then  already  in 
the  house.  A  fury  of  terror  seized  me.  I  sprang  to 
the  door  and  unbolted  it,  then  hurried  across  the  room, 
and  got  into  the  closet  just  as  the  parlor-door  opened. 


374  CONSTRAINED    TO     HEAR. 

But,  unimagined  situation !  As  I  was  eagerly  turn 
ing  the  knob  of  the  door  that  led  into  the  adjoining 
room,  I  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  talking  there. 

"  And  where  does  this  door  lead  to  ?"  said  a  thin 
female  voice. 

"  Oh,  to  nowheres  in  particular,"  answered  the  voice 
of  Buttons,  as  he  slipped  the  bolt  and  shut  off  my  es 
cape.  "  'Tain't  used  for  nothing.  These  is  the  rooms 
that  goes  together." 

I  heard  her  ask  more  questions,  and  appeal  to 
some  one  who  was  with  her.  I  was  in  an  agony  of 
fright.  Through  the  door,  which  I  held  a  crack  open 
that  I  should  not  smother,  I  saw  Maonally,  and  a  gen 
tleman  with  him.  They  were  now  seated  near  the  fire. 
I  could  see  them  distinctly  by  its  blaze,  the  curtains 
into  the  bedroom  being  drawn  quite  wide  apart.  If 
there  had  been  any  emotion  strong  enough  to  conquer 
my  fear  and  shame,  it  would  have  overcome  me  when 
I  recognized  in  the  stranger  Mr.  Hardinge.  I  never 
can  express  half  of  the  guilt  and  degradation  that  I 
felt;  it  had  no  proportion  to  the  wrong  that  I  had 
done.  I  could  not  forgive  or  excuse  myself,  now  that 
I  saw  of  what  I  had  been  in  danger  every  day.  Every 
feeling  seemed  to  dwindle  to  nothing  before  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  the  womanly  defence  that  nature 
gives  us.  At  that  moment  I  loved  no  one  but  myself, 
I  cared  for  nothing  but  to  escape  from  my  intolerable 
dilemma.  The  motives  that  had  led  me  into  it  seemed 
contemptible. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  hear  what  was  being  said 
by  the  two  men  sitting  at  the  fire.  I  could  not  miss  a 
word,  a  syllable,  scarcely  an  expression.  They  were 
talking  of  something  that  had  occurred  the  night  before. 
Mr.  Hardinge  had  gone  to  him  after  last  evening's 


CONSTRAINED    TO     HEAK.  375 

lecture,  and  spoken  to  him.     He  had,  he  said,  a  fear 
that  he  would  not  be  glad  to  have  him  know  him. 

u  Far  from  it,"  said  Macnally.  "  I  have  been  think 
ing  every  day  since  I  came  of  looking  you  up.  I 
should  be  a  most  ungrateful  brute  if  I  hadn't 
meant  to  do  it.  I  have  been  here  less  than  a  month, 
and  I  have  been  much  occupied,  but  not  enough  to 
drive  out  the  thought  of  what  T  owed  to  you.  Of 
course  it  was  an  effort,  breaking  the  ice,  and  going  into 
things  that  one  would  be  glad  to  get  out  of  one's  mind 
forever ;  I'm  sure  you  understand." 

"  Of  course  ;  and  that's  why  I  hesitated  to  speak  to 
you  last  night.  All  these  years  I  have  said  the  same 
thing  to  myself,  when  I  have  wondered  that  I  did  not 
hear  from  you  after  you  went  home." 

"  You  got  my  letter  from  Liverpool,  when  I  landed  ?" 
"  No,  I  never  have  had  a  word  from  you  since  I 
left  you  on  the  steamer." 

"  I  can't  account  for  it — but — yes — perhaps  I  can. 
"\Vheu  I  landed  at  Liverpool,  I  was  on  the  eve  of  a  ter 
rible  fever.  That  letter  to  you  was  the  last  thing  I 
remember.  I  got  to  my  room  at  the  hotel ;  I  remember 
my  head  was  so  bad  I  could  scarcely  tell  the  servant 
what  I  wanted,  but  he  brought  me  ink  and  paper  at 
last.  I  wrote  to  you.  My  feeling  was  I  was  going  to 
die,  and  that  must  be  done  before  I  was  past  thinking. 
When  the  letter  was  sealed  and  directed,  I  sent  for  the 
man  and  gave  it  to  him,  witli  some  money  for  a  stamp. 
It  was  a  supreme  effort.  I  think  it  probable  I  sank 
down  then  into  the  stupor  which  was  the  beginning  of 
my  illness.  The  man  probably  pocketed  the  money 
and  mislaid  the  letter,  or  else  I  had  misdirected  it  in 
my  confused  condition.  One  is  as  likely  as  the  other. 
You  must  have  thought  me  a  bad  fellow." 


376  CONSTRAINED    TO    HEAK. 

"  I  always  felt  tliere  must  be  some  excuse.  I  had 
an  idea  that  you  weren't — living,  perhaps.  Were  you 
long  ill  2" 

"  A  good  many  weeks,  I  fancy.  I  was  at  a  strange 
hotel;  my  things  weren't  marked,  you  know.  They 
just  took  care  of  me  for  charity's  sake.  A  good  Sister 
of  Mercy  nursed  me ;  none  of  my  people  knew  any 
thing  about  it.  I — well,  I  might  as  well  tell  you,  I 
owe  it  to  you.  I  had  been  a  little  hardly  treated  at 
home,  I  thought.  I  had  been  an  idle  fellow,  self- 
willed  too,  I  suppose.  But  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  they 
went  the  best  way  to  work  to  get  it  out  of  me.  How 
ever,  I  don't  pretend  to  judge.  I  don't  think  I  should 
have  been  so  stubborn  if  they'd  been  more  lenient ;  as 
I  look  back,  I  don't  see  that  they  were  quite  justified. 
When  I  got  over  my  fever,  I  was  not  over  my  resent 
ment,  quite.  I  was  despondent  and  purposeless.  I  re 
solved  I  would  not  go  home.  I  had  still  a  little  money 
left.  I  sold  some  things  I  had,  paid  the  expenses  of 
my  illness,  and  took  passage  for  Australia,  where  I 
staid  three  years.  At  thjs  moment,  no  member  of  my 
family  knows  that  I  ever  was  in  America  till  now ; 
none,  at  least,  but  a  little  sister  who  was  faithful  to  me 
always,  and  to  whom  I  always  wrote  from  here." 

"  That  accounts  for  your  never  answering  my  let 
ters,  sent  at  random,  to  be  sure,  nor  seeing  my  adver 
tisements  about  the  discovery  that  was  made  two  years 
after,  at  South  Berwick.  You  do  not  know  of  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  of  it ;  after  my  return  to  England, 
I  saw  a  paragraph  in  an  old  paper.  It  seemed  an  acci 
dent  that  I  should  have  found  it.  I  never  could  get 
hold  of  any  fuller  statement,  though  I  looked  through 
many  files  of  papers  ;  but  I  had  not  the  advantage  of 
a  date  to  fix  it.  What  I  saw  was  a  mere  paragraph  in  a 


CONSTRAINED     TO     HEAR.  377 

torn  scrap  of  paper,  the  name  of  which  I  did  not 
know.'' 

"  Why  did  you  not  write  to  me  ?" 

"  I — I — hated  to  open  the  old  wound  again.  It's 
always  hard  to  me  to  speak  of  things  that  have  gone 
deep.  It's  a  bad  trait,  I  know.  It's  got  me  into  the 
worst  troubles  of  my  life.  I'm  always  promising  my 
self  to  besin  a  reformation." 

o 

And  he  looked  up  to  his  companion  with  the 
old  sweet  smile  of  South  Berwick  days. 

"Well,  you  may  congratulate  yourself  you  have 
begun  the  reformation  now,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Har- 
dinge. 

"  I'm  going  to  carry  it  a  little  further,"  said  Mac- 
nally,  a  constrained,  pained  look  succeeding  the  smile. 
"  If  you  can  tell  me  anything  of  the  other  actors  in 
that  terrible  drama,  I  shall — be  glad." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  I  can't  tell  you  very  much.  The 
poor  young  mother  I  know  nothing  of,  except  that  she 
went  to  Canada,  after  a  few  weeks  or  months.  I  think 
she  can't  be  living,  or  sane — one  would  almost  wonder 
if  she  were,  after  what  she  had  gone  through.  I  thinjk 
the  more  that  she  must  be  dead,  because,  at  the  time 
of  the  discovery  at  South  Berwick,  she  did  not  come  to 
me,  or  make  any  sign.  I  should  have  thought  she 
would  naturally  have  come  to  me,  hoping  I  might  tell 
her  something  of  you,  or  get  to  you  some  message  from 
her.  It  was  a  painful  case — a  painful  case." 

There  was  a  long  silence ;  Hacnally  sat  gazing  into 
the  fire.  At  last  he  said  : 

"  The  woman,  Sophia  :  I  wonder  if  one  could  hear 
anything  of  her.  She  is  not  the  kind  that  dies,"  he 
added,  with  a  short,  bitter  laugh. 

"  No,"  responded  Hardinge,  "  she  had  fire  and  ven- 


378  CONSTRAINED    TO     HEAR. 

om  enough  in  her  to  outlive  a  dozen  generations.  She's 
living,  you  may  take  your  oath  of  that." 

"  I  wonder  what  would  be  the  best  way  to  go  to 
work  to  find  some  trace  of  her?" 

"  Advertising,  I  should  think,  or  application  to  some 
detective  agency.  If  you  like,  I'll  see  what  can  be 
done." 

"  If  you  would,  I  should  be  very  glad  of  it." 

Mr.  Hardinge  took  out  his  memorandum-book. 
"Sophia — Sophia — do  you  remember  the  name?  Of 
course,  though,  I've  got  it  on  the  minutes  of  the  trial." 

"  Atkinson,"  said  Macnally,  briefly. 

Mr.  Hardinge  wrote  it  down,  and  put  the  book  back 
into  his  pocket.  "And  the  poor  Emlyns,"  he  said; 
"  you  know  about  them  ?" 

"  No,"  returned  Macnally,  briefly  again,  and  I  saw 
his  face  darken. 

"  Mrs.  Emlyn  died  very  suddenly,  in  Naples.  She 
had  but  a  few  days'  illness,  the  result  largely,  I  suppose, 
of  her  devotion  to  her  husband  and  her  anxiety  about 
him.  He  was,  you  know,  very  much  broken  down  by 
the  excitement  attendant  on  the  trial ;  he  was  losing  his 
mind  fast,  but  the  poor  lady  did  not  live  to  see  him  a 
total  wreck.  The  decline  in  his  mental  condition  was 
very  rapid  after  her  death  ;  in  a  few  months  he  was 
hopelessly  imbecile.  I  believe  he  is  still  living,  very 
tranquil  and  harmless." 

"  And  how  about  the  children,  Ned  and  Naomi  ?" 

"  They  were  sent  to  an  uncle  in  New  Orleans.  Ned 
was  married  last  year.  He  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  and 
will  make  a  good  lawyer.  He's  persevering  and  manly. 
And  Naomi  is  quite  a  beauty.  By  the  way,  she's  in  the 
city  now.  She  has  been  very  much  admired." 

"  Pretty  little  Naomi !"  said  Macnally,  with  a  sad 


CONSTRAINED     TO     HEAR.  379 

smile.  "  She  was  always  faithful  to  me ;  she  proved 
my  only  friend." 

"  Shall  I  send  her  word  about  you  ?  or  shall  I  give 
you  her  address  ?  I  could  get  it  easily,  though  I  can't 
recall  it  at  this  moment." 

"  No,  oh,  no.  I  shall  like  to  meet  her  without  prep 
aration.  I  wonder  if  the  child  would  know  me." 

"  I'm  quite  sure  you  wouldn't  know  her,  if  you 
think  of  her  still  as  the  child.  She  must  be — fully 
twenty-three.  She  is  a  young  queen,  tall,  like  her  aunt, 
and  quite  commanding." 

"I  have  a  fancy  that  I  should  know  her  eyes;  I 
shall  like  to  test  my  memory.  You  say  she  goes  much 
in  society  ?  It  will  give  me  an  interest — I  will  go  out 
more.  You  don't  think  it's  possible  she  would  know 
anything  of — the  others  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  there  is  little  chance.  She  would 
have  told  me  if  she  had  had  any  news  of  them.  She 
scarcely  ever  fails  to  speak  to  me  of  that  time  whenever 
I  may  meet  her.  Young  as  she  was  at  the  time,  it 
made  a  very  deep  impression  on  her  mind." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Mr.  Hardinge  got  up  to 
go  away. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  you,"  said  Macnally,  a  little  awk 
wardly,  as  he  rose,  "  not  to  let — anybody  know  of  my 
identity  with  that  unhappy  man  you  saved  from  the 
gallows,  not  even  little  Naomi.  I've  a  great  aversion 
to  its  being  known  on  the  other  side ;  and  to  tell  the 
truth,  I've  a  great  aversion  to  sensation  as  connected 
with  myself  in  any  way-  It  couldn't  do  any  harm,  I 
know ;  but  I  am  sure  you  understand  how  painful  it 
would  all  be  to  me  if  in  any  way  the  rumor  should  be 
started." 

"I  can  understand  it  perfectly,  my  dear  sir,  and  you 


380  CONSTRAINED     TO     HEAR. 

may  be  assured  of  my  strict  silence.  But,  you'll  excuse 
me  for  saying  so,  you  will  have  difficulty  in  keeping  it 
a  secret,  unless  people  Lave  short  memories. 

"  You  knew  me  easily,  then  ?" 

"  In  a  moment." 

"  I  felt  I  was  so  changed.  I  depended  on  that,  and 
on  the  chance  of  not  being  seen  by  the  few  people  who 
were  familiar  with  me  then.  It  seems  so  long  ago,  and  it 
seems  as  if  it  were  such  a  secluded,  narrow  path  I  walked." 

"Well, let  us  trust  you  won't  meet  any  Sutphen 
County  people.  Sutphen  County  !  The  name  always 
gives  me  a  kind  of  shiver.  Do  you  realize  how  close  a 
shave  that  was  ?  Two  minutes  before  that  jury  came 
in,  I  would  not  have  given  sixpence  for  your  chance." 

I  saw  Macnally's  face  grow  white  as  the  firelight 
played  on  it.  An  almost  imperceptible  shudder  passed 
over  him,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"  But  for  the  testimony  of  that  poor  young  crea 
ture,"  went  on  the  lawyer,  "  you  must  surely  have  been 
lost.  You  never  knew  what  anxious  hours  I  had  lest 
she  should  fail  us.  If  she  had  lost  her  reason,  or  had 
become  hopelessly  ill,  or  had  wavered  but  a  hair's 
breadth  in  her  testimony,  there  would  not  have  been  a 
ray  of  hope.  But  I  needn't  have  feared.  A  woman 
never  breaks  down  till  she  has  nothing  to  hold  up." 

At  this  moment  the  servant  came  in,  bringing  coal. 
Mr.  Hardinge  held  out  his  hand,  and  Macually  followed 
him  out  of  the  room.  The  servant  continued  busy 
about  the  fire.  In  a  moment  Macnally  came  back,  and 
threw  himself  into  the  chair  before  the  fire.  The 
woman  went  away,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  Mac 
nally  sat  fixedly  gazing  into  the  flames,  as  if  to  read 
there  the  riddle  of  his  life.  He  lay  back  in  the  chair, 
his  head  a  little  bent  forward,  his  look  deep  and  intent, 


CONSTRAINED     TO    HEAE.  381 

not  as  men  dream  and  wonder.  The  room  was  very 
still.  There  was  snow  on  the  ground  outside,  and  the 
passing  wheels  were  muffled.  His  face  was  half  turned 
towards  my  place  of  concealment.  If  I  had  made  any 
noise  he  must  have  heard  me.  If  I  had  made  any 
movement  he  must  have  seen  me. 

He  never  stirred  ;  I  think  it  must  have  been  a  long 
half  hour.  I  had  a  chance  to  burn  well  in  upon  my 
memory  that  pale  profile,  with  the  bent  head  and  the 
intent  eyes ;  the  relaxed  figure  that  was  so  motionless  ; 
the  hand  that  was  so  slender,  still  and  white.  The 
firelight  shone,  now  broad  and  ruddy,  now  flickering 
and  yellow ;  but  its  changes  never  moved  him  from 
his  fixed  position. 

At  last  Mary  came  in  to  arrange  the  table  for  his 
dinner.  Pie  turned  a  little  restlessly  and  pushed  his 
chair  a  trifle  nearer  to  the  fire.  My  terror  was  in 
creasing  ;  in  a  moment  the  chambermaid  came  into  the 
bedroom.  If  there  were  anything  she  kept  in  this 
closet,  I  was  lost.  She  went  to  the  waslistand,  poured 
fresh  water  in  the  pitchers ;  lit  the  gas  above  the  dress 
ing-table,  pulled  down  the  window  shades.  Mary,  by 
this  time,  had  arranged  the  table  and  put  on  it  the 
lighted  lamp,  with  the  shade  upon  it.  Then,  glancing 
around  to  see  if  everything  were  in  order,  sho  turned 
and  left  the  room. 

As  the  chambermaid  came  again  to  the  wash-stand, 
she  muttered,  "  There,  I've  forgotten  my  towels,"  and 
putting  down  her  pail  of  water,  went  out  of  the  room, 
looking  out  the  key  of  the  linen  closet  on  the  bunch  in 
her  belt,  as  she  went.  I  knew  the  linen  closet  was  on 
the  floor  above.  She  went  out,  leaving  the  door  ajar. 
There  was  a  bright  light  over  the  dressing-table ;  I  had 
to  pass  full  in  front  of  it,  before  Macnally's  eyeSj  if  by 


382  CONSTRAINED    TO     HEAR. 

chance  lie  lifted  tliern  up  from  the  fire.     But  it  was 
the  only  moment,  before  the  woman  should  come  back. 

I  remembered  he  would  have  heard  the  maid  mov 
ing  about  in  the  room,  and  my  movements  would  be  less 
likely  to  attract  his  notice.  I  pushed  the  closet  door 
open;  and  in  the  strong  light  of  two  gas-burners, 
walked  across  to  the  hall  door,  and  out  of  it.  He  had 
not  seen  me ;  there  was  no  sound  of  his  even  turning 
in  his  chair. 

When  I  got  to  my  own  room,  and  sank  down  and 
hid  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  asked  myself  three 
questions — Was  it  possible  anything  would  ever  tempt 
me  to  do  this  thing  again  ? — Had  I  been  punished  or 
rewarded  by  what  I  had  overheard  ? — Was  I  further 
from  or  nearer  to  Macnally  than  I  had  been  before  ? 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  I  answered,  to  myself,  with 
passionate  protestation,  "  would  ever  tempt  me  to  do 
this  thing  again." 

I  had  been  punished  by  what  I  had  boon  forced  to 
overhear.  I  remembered  that  he  had  never  once 
spoken  my  name.  That  he  had  said  these  were  things 
that  he  would  be  glad  to  get  out  of  his  mind  forever. 
No,  he  had  not  forgotten,  his  was  not  a  nature  to  for 
get  ;  but  he  would  be  glad  to  forget  if  it  were  possible. 
The  memory  of  me  was  only  fraught  with  torture  to 
him.  The  wound  had  been  too  deep  to  heal ;  it  might 
be  silent  for  long  intervals,  but  it  broke  out  now  and 
then,  with  undiminished  pain.  Through  me  his  life 
was  desolate ;  he  strove  against  me  as  against  an  enemy. 
He  would  be  glad  to  forget  forever  what  he  had  so  far 
only  succeeded  in  forgetting  iitfully.  Ah  !  bitter  hear 
ing  !  Then  his  words  had  planted  another  thorn. 
Naomi  Emlyn,  a  young  queen,  now  in  her  fresh 
womanhood  and  perfect  beauty,  tenderly  remembered 


CONSTRAINED    TO     HEAE.  383 

as  "his  only  friend,"  was  to  be  sought  out.  She 
surely  would  be  "  an  interest "  to  him.  To  meet  her, 
he  was  going  more  into  the  world.  For  my  own  peace 
of  mind,  I  should  better  not  have  done  that  little  piece 
of  eavesdropping. 

And  again,  had  this  evening's  occurrence  put  me 
further  from  or  nearer  to  him  ?  It  had  cut  both  ways. 
It  had  put  me  further  from  him  than  even  all  these 
years  had  put  me.  It  had  made  it  impossible  for  me 
to  hope  for  any  recognition.  His  happiness  seemed  to 
depend  upon  oblivion,  and  if  I  had  a  duty,  it  was  to 
save  him  from  a  re-opening  of  the  wound,  and  to 
further  his  attempt  to  find  in  something  new  an  inter 
est.  But  the  sight  of  him,  the  nearness  to  him,  the 
sound,  close  to  my  ears,  of  his  unapproachably  sympa 
thetic  voice — what  had  they  not  wrought  upon  my 
heart !  I  had  thought  the  years  had  disciplined  me. 
I  had  fancied  that  all  was  dead  within  me  but  the  hope 
of  Heaven  arid  the  thought  of  duty.  What  would  I 
not  have  given  to  have  recalled  the  life  of  peace  that 
his  coming  had  spoiled !  It  would  take  years  to  bring 
it  back  again.  Never,  it  seemed  to  me,  while  I  knew 
he  lived,  could  I  bo  at  rest  again  without  him.  But 
lately,  it  would  have  seemed  to  me  that  to  know  he 
was  living  would  have  been  happiness  enough  ;  living, 
if  even  lying  on  a  narrow  cot  in  some  ward  of  Charity 
Hospital.  How  perverse  and  ungrateful  I  had  become. 
He  was  living,  he  was  at  the  height  of  fame  and  pros 
perity,  he  was  not  ill  satisfied  with  life  and  its  results ; 
and  I  was  passionately  wretched,  because  I  could  not 
claim  a  part  in  his  life  any  longer,  because  the  door 
was  shut  between  us,  and  I  could  not  touch  his  hand  or 
meet  his  eye. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

SOME   DEAD   FLOWERS. 

"  No  longer  roseate  now,  nor  soft,  nor  sweet, 
But  pale,  and  hard,  and  dry  as  stubble-wheat." 

E.  B.  Browning, 

"  Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those,  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned, 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love — 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  life  !  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

Tennyson. 

I  KEPT  my  resolution  for  a  few  days.  I  only  saw 
him  from  the  window,  going  in  and  out.  I  walked 
much.  I  tried  to  keep  myself  from  thought  by  busy 
occupation.  Sophia  had  nothing  to  complain  of  in  my 
devotion  to  her  and  her  duties.  I  even  found  a  day, 
once  in  the  week,  to  go  back  to  the  hospital.  But,  all 
I  succeeded  in  doing  was  wearing  myself  out,  and 
leaving  thought  still  master. 

Mr.  Conyngham's  cards  and  visitors  increased ;  his 
goings  out  increased.  Several  days  in  the  week  Buttons 
brought  down  word  he  would  not  dine  at  home.  On 
many  nights  I  heard  him  come  in  after  midnight. 
Had  he  found  Naomi  Emlyn  yet  ?  The  papers  were 
daily  chronicling  his  doings.  He  was  lecturing  very 
often ;  sometimes  he  was  gone  for  a  day  or  two,  lectur 
ing  in  other  cities.  It  was  my  constant  hope  the  corner 

[384] 


SOME    DEAD    FLOWERS.  385 

rooms  would  be  rented.  I  oven  sent  an  advertisement 
of  them  to  the  papers.  Many  people  came  to  see  them, 
but  they  were  not  taken — now  for  this  reason,  now  for 
that.  I  longed  to  see  that  temptation  closed  upon  me ; 
but,  while  those  rooms  were  vacant,  I  was  not  sure  of 
myself — I  might  be  tempted  to  go  again  into  the  room 
which  I  had  declared  to  myself  I  never  again  would 
enter. 

About  this  time  there  appeared  in  all  the  papers  an. 
advertisement  addressed  to  Sophia  Atkinson.  I  took 
pains  that  it  should  never  meet  her  eye.  The  servants 
did  not  read ;  but  the  lodgers — one  or  two  of  them — 
noticed  the  advertisement,  and  sent  it  to  Miss  Atkin 
son,  with  their  compliments.  I  was  fortunate  enough 
to  intercept  the  papers,  and  take  them  to  my  own  room 
first ;  and  so  Mr.  Hardinge's  eiforts  for  his  client  were 
not  crowned  with  much  success.  His  detective,  also,  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  see  in  the  hall,  as  I  came  in 
one  day,  and  to  throw  completely  ofE  the  track.  I  con 
vinced  him  that  this  Atkinson  was  a  very  different  one 
from  the  Atkinson  whom  he  pursued.  By  a  fortunate 
mistake,  her  residence,  in  the  directory,  was  put  down 
as  the  number  of  the  house  on  the  street,  and  not  the 
house  on  the  avenue.  It  was  also  put  in,  S.  Atkinson, 
and  not  Sophia  Atkinson.  So  Sophia  nursed  her  rheu 
matism  up-stairs,  and  Mr.  Conyngham,  unsuspected, 
kept  his  rooms  below. 

One  day,  it  was  a  rainy,  in-door  day,  I  had  had  less 
possibility  of  occupation  than  usual,  and  had  taken  out 
my  water  colors.  There  was  an  unfinished  sketch  of  a 
bit  of  the  South  Berwick  beach,  having  for  background 
an  opening  in  the  dunes,  and  a  distant  glimpse  of  green  ' 

meadows   and  purple   hills   beyond.     I  finished  it ;  it 
17 


386  SOME    DEAD    FLOWERS. 

was  a  characteristic  view ;  it  seemed  to  me  no  one 
could  claim  it  for  any  other  spot  on  earth.  A  sudden 
impulse  seized  me.  I  scorned  my  resolution  ;  the  corner 
parlor  door  stood  open  as  I  went  up-stairs  to  my  room, 
with  the  picture  in  my  hand.  I  pushed  through  the 
door ;  in  another  minute  I  was  in  the  forbidden  rooms. 

I  had  forgotten  to  say,  that  over  the  corner  where 
stood  a  little  table  with  cigars  and  ash-stand,  I  had 
hung  an  engraving,  and  under  it,  a  small  and  insignifi 
cant  photograph  of  some  favorite  picture,  I  can't  rec 
ollect  at  this  moment  what.  These  two  had  hung  low, 
and  I  had,  in  other  unconventional  places,  put  one  or 
two  more.  The  walls  were  rather  dark,  and  they  had  a 
good  effect. 

I  hastily  took  out  the  photograph  from  its  frame, 
and  put  in  its  place  the  little  water  color  I  had  just 
finished,  and  hung  it  exactly  as  it  had  hung  before. 
Why  did  I  do  it  ?  It  would  be  hard  to  say.  It  might 
never  attract  his  notice.  It  might  even  be  that  he 
would  look  at  it  and  never  see  a  suggestion  of  the  spot 
I  meant.  I  did  it,  perhaps  from  an  impulse  to  escape 
from  the  resolution  that  I  had  made  to  hide  myself 
from  him,  to  defend  him  from  the  past.  It  was  a 
perverse  and  passionate  resistance  of  my  own  decree. 

When  I  had  put  the  little  picture  in  its  place  and 
given  a  glance  back  at  it,  I  hurried  out,  to  escape  from 
reason  and  from  self-reproach.  As  I  passed  his  dress 
ing-table,  I  saw  lying  on  it,  beside  a  crumpled  handker 
chief  and  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  couple  of  dinner  cards  and 
some  withered  flowers.  It  was  evidently  the  contents 
of  his  pocket,  emptied  out  the  night  before  when  he 
came  home.  The  chambermaid  had  left  them,  not 
knowing  where  to  put  them.  I  glanced  down  at  the 


SOME    DEAD    FLOWERS.  387 

cards.  They  were  exquisitely  painted.  On  one  was 
written,  Miss  Emlyn ;  on  the  other,  Mr.  Conyngham. 
My  heart  gave  a  throb.  Then  he  had  met  her ;  they 
had  been  side  by  side  for  hours,  last  night  at  dinner.  I 
would  take  my  little  sketch  away  :  South  Berwick  was 
recalled  enough.  But  no ;  it  should  stay.  I  would  go 
away,  and  never  come  back  into  this  cruel  room  again. 

But  what  were  my  resolutions  worth  ?  Not  long 
after,  it  was  a  wild  and  stormy  evening,  I  was  sitting 
in  my  window,  looking  out ;  the  light  within  was  turned 
low.  The  people  struggled  past  around  the  corner 
where  the  wind  met  them  full,  witli  heads  bent  down, 
and  umbrellas  bent  and  twisted.  I  liked  the  fierce  beat 
of  the  rain  upon  the  pane.  I  liked  anything  better 
than  soft  moonlight  and  calm  days  of  sunshine;  I  was 
too  restless  to  like  things  that  were  at  rest.  While  I 
looked  out,  leaning  my  forehead  against  the  glass,  I 
saw  Mr.  Conyngham  come  out  and  get  into  a  carriage. 
A  man  held  the  umbrella  over  him  and  opened  the 
carriage  door ;  then  got  up  beside  the  driver  on  the 
box,  and  they  drove  away.  I  don't  know  what  there 
was  in  the  sight  of  his  departure  that  gave  me  such 
bitter  thoughts.  It  was  in  such  contrast  to  my  loneli 
ness,  to  my  misery.  I  thought  of  the  gay  scene  to 
which  he  went,  the  adulation  with  which  he  would  be 
met.  I  remembered  Naomi  would  be  there,  no  doubt. 
Naomi,  whose  eyes  he  thought  he  must  remember,  who 
had  been  "  his  only  friend  !"  The  world  was  at  his 
feet,  if  he  wanted  it ;  love,  perhaps,  and  a  life-long 
devotion  was  stretching  out  its  hands  to  him  to  draw 
him  from  his  life  of  cold  seclusion  ;  and  I,  ah,  what  lay 
before  me  in  the  dreary  years  to  come? 

I  turned  from  the  window,  and  shut  out  the  storm 


388  SOME    DEAD    FLOWEKS. 

and  darkness.  I  opened  my  portfolio,  and  sat  down 
beside  the  lamp.  From  a  folded  sheet  of  paper  there 
fell  out  a  bunch  of  flowers  that  had  been  pressed,  stems 
and  roots  and  leaves  and  all.  Sudden  tears  sprang  to 
my  eyes  at  the  sight  of  them.  They  were  little  pink 
flowers  that  I  had  gathered  at  South  Berwick  the  year 
before,  when  I  had  spent  a  day  there,  in  the  latter  part 
of  August.  The  country  people  call  them  "  meadow- 
pinks,"  I  don't  know  what  their  correct  name  is.  They 
are  a  little  star-shaped  flower,  of  a  soft  yellowish  pink, 
with  brown  and  yellow  centers.  They  grow  in  salt-mead 
ows,  and  no  doubt  are  very  common,  but  I  had  never  seen 
them  anywhere  but  at  South  Berwick,  and  they  were  en 
tirely  associated  with  the  place.  In  masses,  they  are  very 
beautiful,  and  they  were  often  the  ornament  of  my  little 
tea-table  at  the  cottage ;  in  a  low  glass  dish,  against  the 
dark  mahogany,  they  were  lovely.  I  was  very  apt  to  wear 
them  in  my  dress.  Ned  and  Macnally  never  crossed  the 
meadows  without  bringing  me  a  bunch.  They  did  not 
grow  very  near  us,  a  mile  or  more  away.  It  was  quite 
a  circumstance  to  get  them,  but  I  was  seldom  without 
them.  When  we  were  driving,  it  was  an  excuse  to 
prolong  the  drive,  to  go  and  get  some.  I  knew  Mac- 
nally  had  often  walked  miles  out  of  his  way,  to  bring  a 
handful  to  me.  I  could  see  him  now,  standing  in  the 
door,  in  his  blue-flannel  clothes,  with  his  game-bag  over 
his  shoulder,  his  cap  in  one  hand,  the  flowers  in  the 
other,  his  face  eager,  bright,  and  yet  almost  shy,  if  I 
were  sitting  alone  in  the  parlor,  and  there  wras  no  child 
to  pick  up  in  his  arms  and  make  a  turmoil  over. 

They  were  my  flowers,  par  excellence  •  every  one 
got  them  for  me,  brought  them  to  me,  associated  them 
with  the  thought  of  me.  These  I  held  in  my  hand  were 


SOME     DEAD     FLOWERS.  380 

excellently  pressed,  they  had  retained  their  color  and 
their  shape,  even  to  the  roots  and  leaves.  I  put  them 
aside,  and  tried  to  recall  no  more  pictures  that  they  sug 
gested  to  me.  It  was  late  when  I  went  up  to  bed :  I 
had  my  portfolio  in  my  hand.  The  corner  door  was 
open.  "Why  could  they  not  keep  that  door  shut  ?  I  re 
solved  to  lock  it  and  to  carry  the  key  up  to  Sophia.  In 
the  meantime,  I  pushed  it  open,  and  went  in.  It  was 
only  eleven  o'clock,  there  was  plenty  of  time  before  he 
should  come  back.  A  sudden  impulse  seized  me,  and 
I  went  stealthily  in.  There  was  light  enough  in  his 
parlor  for  me  to  make  my  way  across  the  bed-room. 
The  lamp  was  turned  low,  the  fire  gave  out  rather  a 
fitful  glow.  His  chair  was  by  the  table,  standing  as  he 
had  left  it ;  a  half  burned  cigar  lay  on  the  ash-stand  on 
the  table,  a  book  half -closed  was  beside  it.  A  note, 
torn  open  carelessly,  lay  on  it.  The  envelope  had  the 
initials  N".  E.  on  it;  the  address  was  in  a  woman's 
hand. 

I  took  a  handful  of  my  flowers,  and  shut  them  in 
the  book;  put  another  lump  of  coal  on  the  fire, 
smoothed  out  the  table-cover,  which  was  drawn  awry, 
straightened  the  rug,  and  put  the  footstool  before  the 
chair,  then  went  away. 

The  next  morning,  about  nine  o'clock,  I  had  to  go 
into  the  other  house,  to  ease  Sophia's  mind  about  the 
condition  of  a  window-shade  in  the  upper  hall.  It  had 
been  reported  to  her  in  a  damaged  condition.  She 
could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  it.  She  would  not  take 
the  word  of  the  servants  about  it ;  I  must  go  and  look 
at  it  myself.  I  rarely  went  into  this  hall ;  it  gave  me 
rather  an  uncomfortable  feeling,  and  I  dreaded  meeting 
any  of  the  lodgers,  who  always  eyed  me  with  more  in- 


390 


SOME    DEAD    FLOWERS. 


terest  than  I  liked.  As  I  got  near  Mr.  Conyngham's 
door  I  caught  sight  of  some  one  standing  in  it,  and  the 
figure  of  Buttons  in  front,  again,  of  that.  All  that  I 
could  do  was  to  step  back  behind  a  wardrobe,  which 
hid  me  from  sight  in  an  angle  of  the  hall.  Buttons 
was  a  little  waif  whom  I  had  found  in  the  children's 
ward  at  the  hospital  several  years  before.  He  was  at 
least  fifteen  now,  but  he  looked  barely  nine.  He  had 
a  tiny,  well-made  figure,  and  a  tiny,  acute  face.  I  had 
persuaded  Sophia  to  get  him  a  suit  of  brown  clothes 
with  brass  buttons,  and  to  take  him  into  her  service. 
It  was  a  very  good  investment ;  he  never  outgrew  his 
clothes.  He  was  quite  useful,  and  a  distinguished  or 
nament  to  the  establishment.  The  apron  that  he  wore 
when  about  his  menial  work  was  so  absurdly  little,  it 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  made  of  a  pocket  handkerchief, 
but  it  came  below  his  knees.  His  intelligence  seemed 
preternatural  because  of  his  size.  His  accent  was  South 
ern,  with  flowers  of  Hibernian  eloquence  engrafted. 
Mr.  Conyngham  was  saying  to  him  : 
"  I  want  to  see  the — person  who  keeps  the  house. 
Will  you  go  and  say  so  to  her  ?" 

"  She's  ill,  sah,  can't  see  nobody ;  much  oblige,  sah ; 
very  sorry,  sah." 

"  I  am  sorry,  too.     You  are  sure  it  is  impossible  ?" 
"  Sartain  sure,  sah.     She  ain't  see  nobody  for  this 
month  and  more.     She's  quite  an  old  lady,  she  is,  and 
she's  got  the  rheumatism  very  bad." 

"  What's  her  name  ?     I  think  I  have  forgotten  it." 

"  Her  name,  sah  ?     Missatkins,  sah." 

"  Sacketts  ?     Miss  Sacketts,  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Yessah,  Missacketts,  sah.  That's  what  her  name  is." 

Buttons  made  dreadful  work  with  people's  names ; 


SOME    DEAD    FLOWERS.  391 

ho  made  no  account  of  a  syllable  or  two,  more  or  less ; 
it  had  been  quite  a  hindrance  to  his  usefulness  as  a 
hall  boy,  but  I  blessed  him  for  it  now,  and  remembered 
with  relief  that  he  habitually  deprived  Sophia  of  the 
last  two  letters  of  her  name. 

"  Sacketts,  Miss  Sacketts  3" 

"  Yes,  sab." 

"  And  who  else  lives  in  this  house  ?  Can  you  tell 
me  any  of  their  names  ?" 

"  In  this  house,  sah  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  this  house.  On  the  floor  below,  who  is 
there?" 

"There's  an  old  lady,  sah;  she  have  a  son,  sah. 
They  very  nice  people,  sah,  they  have  live  with  Miss 
Sacketts  a  long  while." 

"  And  here,  on  this  floor  ?" 

"  There  be  two  ladies,  sah ;  they  have  the  back 
rooms,  like  you  have  the  front.  They  be  maiding 
ladies ;  they  come  last  year,  they  did." 

"  Are  they — young  ladies,  at  all,  either  of  them  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sah,"  and  Buttons  grinned  a  little. 
"  They  be  quite  maiding  ;  they  be  settled,  both  o'  'em. 
And  the  floor  above,  there's  Miss  Graham,  sah.  She's 
got  some  children,  Bah.  Miss  Graham  she's  a  very 
little  lady ;  she's  got  black  eyes  and  speaks  up  sharp. 
She  makes  'em  all  stand  round,  she  does.  Mr.  Gra 
ham's  very  nice  gentleman.  Ho  don't  say  much  'bout 
things  no  way.  And  up-stairs  o'  all  that,  there's  where 
the  help  sleeps,  and  where  Miss  Sacketts  has  her  room, 
and  one  gentleman  lodger  who  don't  take  no  meals.  I 
do  his  blackin'  for  him,  though,  and  he  pays  me  very 
handsome." 

"  And  there's  no  one  else  in  this  house  ?" 


392 


SOME    DEAD     FLOWERS. 


"Nobody,  sah,  in  this  house,  but  what  I  ha'  been 
tellin'  you." 

"  Very  well ;  that  is  all."  And  Mr.  Conyngham 
turned  back  into  his  room  and  shut  his  door. 

Christmas  was  approaching ;  for  two  days  before  it, 
he  was  away.  On  Christmas  eve  I  broke  my  resolution 
again,  and  made  his  room  bright  with  some  holly,  a 
spray  or  two  of  mistletoe  and  a  glass  of  fresh  flowers. 
I  did  not  know  that  he  would  come  back,  but  late  that 
night  he  came.  On  Christmas  Day  he  went  out  early 
to  church  ;  he  crossed  the  street  just  as  I  was  coming 
out  the  door,  when  there  was  scarcely  light  enough  to 
see.  For  the  rest  of  the  day,  he  was  shut  up  in  his 
room.  He  had  a  great  many  calls  from  gentlemen,  who 
took  advantage  of  a  leisure  day,  but  he  did  not  see  any 
of  them.  There  was  no  lack  of  flowers  and  daintily- 
done-up  packages  ;  Buttons  was  a  busy  man  that  day. 
I  heard  Mary  say  to  one  of  the  other  servants,  that  his 
meals  had  come  down  almost  untouched.  In  the  even 
ing,  I  heard  him  walking  up  and  down  his  rooms,  up 
and  down,  for  an  hour  together.  It  had  been  a  raw, 
cheerless  day,  and  the  evening  had  closed  in  with  mist 
and  rain.  The  wound  had  begun  to  smart  again.  "Who 
does  not  pity  the  homeless  man,  to  whom  these  days  of 
festival  are  torture  ?  The  world  cannot  supply  the 
want.  Nothing  but  little  arms  around  his  neck,  a  tender 
hand  in  his,  the  blaze  of  his  own  hearth,  can  make  the 
earthly  side  of  Christmas  fair  to  him.  If  all  are  sorry 
for  such  a  man,  how  much  more  the  one  whose  hand 
has  dealt  the  wound  ;  the  one  whose  misery  it  has  been 
to  make  his  life  a  blank.  I  was  glad  when  Chrismas 
Day  was  over,  with  the  thoughts  it  brought  to  him  and 
me. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

CAP   A1STD   APKO1*. 

"  The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  love's  nectar  sip, 
I  would  not  change  for  thine." 

Ben  Jonson. 

TWO  weeks  after  Christmas  Day,  lie  went  away 
again  (there  was  nothing  else  that  marked  the 
lapse  of  time  to  me  that  winter).  The  time  of  his  re 
turn  was  indefinite.  He  left  word  that  his  letters  were 
to  be  kept  for  him,  that  his  agent  would  call  from  time 
to  time  to  get  them,  and  to  make  the  payment  for  his 
rooms,  which  were  to  be  kept  in  order,  ready  for  him 
to  occupy  at  any  time.  From  the  papers,  I  learned  he 
was  in  Canada.  I  suppose  all  the  world  learned  it  from 
that  or  other  sources.  There  was  a  cessation  of  cards 
and  invitations.  Buttons  had  slack  times,  and  but  for 
the  inflation  of  his. mind,  might  have  returned  to  the 
knives  and  boots.  But  having  been  Mr.  Conyngham's 
gentleman,  he  refused  to  decline  upon  that  occupation, 
and  became  a  little  pert  and  troublesome  in  his  idleness. 
Sophia  was  improving  slowly  ;  if  the  foggy,  moist, 
January  weather  had  not  been  against  her,  the  doctor 
thought  she  might  have  been  down-stairs  by  this  time. 
Several  weeks  passed — three,  I  think  it  was.  The 
house  seemed  silent  and  dead  to  me.  I  went  about  my 
17* 


394  CAP    AND    APBON. 

daily  occupations  with  a  dullness  of  heart  that  fore 
boded  ill  for  the  future.  I  had  begun  to  think  that  he 
would  not  come  back ;  or  that  his  coming  would  be 
but  the  prelude  to  his  going  away  entirely. 

The  day  had  been  wet  and  foggy,  but,  towards 
evening,  it  had  turned  cold ;  and  now,  at  half -past  ten 
o'clock,  it  was  snowing  thickly.  I  sat  reading  by  my 
lamp.  I  had  heard  the  bell  of  the  other  house  ring 
sharply  several  times  ;  no  one  answered  it ;  it  was  now 
quarter  to  eleven.  I  looked  out.  The  lights  in  both 
halls  were  turned  low ;  the  servants  had  evidently  gone 
to  bed ;  the  house  was  supposed  to  be  shut  up.  Who 
ever  it  was,  tired  of  ringing  at  that  bell,  came  around 
to  the  door  of  our  house,  and  rang  sharply  there.  I 
could  not  let  any  one  stay  outside  on  such  a  night ;  I 
opened  the  door.  It  was  a  snow-powdered  boy,  with  a 
telegram  addressed  to  "Miss  Sacketts."  I  paid  the 
eharge,  and  hurried  to  the  lamp  with  it.  It  read : 

"  Train  due  at  ten  o'clock.  Have  supper  ready  for 
me.  L.  B.  M.  CONYNGHAM." 

It  was  already,  as  I  have  said,  quarter  to  eleven.  I 
hurried  to  the  kitchen,  where  I  had  not  been  half  a 
dozen  times  before.  There  I  found  the  cook  asleep 
before  a  good  hot  fire.  The  laundress  had  been  dozing 
in  a  corner,  but  was  just  rubbing  her  eyes  and  getting 
up  to  go  to  bed.  "  Where  were  all  the  other  servants  ?" 
Buttons  had  gone  to  bed  with  a  toothache  hours  ago. 
Mary  and  the  chambermaid  had  gone  out  to  a  party,  to 
be  away  all  night.  Mrs.  Graham's  waiter  never  staid 
after  nine  o'clock,  unless  she  had  company,  and  needed 
him ;  and  the  two  women  who  attended  to  the  other 
tables  also  lodged  abroad.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
The  laundress  was  a  starched,  middle-aged  creature, 


CAP    AND    APKON".  395 

whom  I  had  never  liked.  She  did  her  own  work  well, 
but  had  never  been  known  to  assist  in  that  of  any  other 
servant.  She  was  feeling  particularly  bitter  about  the 
party,  too,  to  which  the  women  were  gone,  whose  duty 
she  was  asked  to  undertake. 

I  soon  found  it  was  useless  to  urge  her  to  arrange  the 
room,  or  wait  upon  the  table.  She  flatly  refused  to  do 
it,  and  seemed  disposed  to  be  impertinent.  The  cook, 
who  was  a  vast,  good-natured  negress,  bestirred  herself 
in  a  slow  way,  and  began  to  prepare  some  supper.  It 
was  not  possible  to  ask  her  to  carry  it  up ;  it  was  doubt 
ful  whether  she  could  get  up  the  basement  stairs ;  she 
never  had  attempted  it  since  she  originally  came  down 
them,  and  she  had  increased  in  bulk  considerably.  Her 
few  outings  were  made  by  way  of  the  area-door,  which 
was  double,  and  which  was  always  opened  on  both 
hinges  to  let  her  pass.  She  lodged  in  some  obscure,  un 
explored  portion  of  the  basement,  cooked  a  merveille, 
and  was  always  good-natured,  when  the  demand  upon 
her  was  not  unreasonable.  She  tried  to  bring  the  laun 
dress  to  reason ;  the  best  that  she  could  be  made  to  con 
sent  to  do,  with  the  persuasion  of  both  of  us,  was  to 
open  the  door  for  the  gentleman,  when  he  rang,  and  to 
carry  the  tray  of  supper  up,  and  set  it  on  the  table  that 
stood  outside  his  door. 

"  Oh,  well,"  I  said,  "  that  will  do  ;  he  can  take  it  in 
himself,  no  doubt." 

My  own  resolution  was  taken.  I  hurried  up-stairs 
to  the  linen  closet,  where  I  knew  Mary's  fresh  caps  and 
aprons  were,  took  one  of  each,  as  well  as  linen  for  the 
table,  and  let  myself,  by  the  closet  door,  into  Mac- 
nally's  room. 

The  rooms  felt  chill  and  damp.     I  lit  the  fire,  the 


390  CAP    AND    APRON. 

lamp  ;  turned  the  gas  low  above  the  dressing-table. 
There  were  fresh  towels  and  fresh  water  on  the  wash- 
stand  ;  there  was  not  much  dust.  In  a  moment  the 
parlor  seemed  transformed  by  the  glow  of  the  lire  and 
by  its  ready  warmth.  I  laid  the  table  with  shaking 
hands.  I  knew  where  the  china  and  glass  wTere  kept, 
in  the  closet  outside  the  door.  There  was  a  screen  that 
Sophia  had  devised,  that  was  put  before  this  closet,  and 
the  table  where  the  tray  was  to  be  put.  Even  if  the 
house  were  not  asleep,  this  would  make  it  safe  for  me  ; 
I  could  move  in  and  out  of  the  room  without  observa 
tion,  and  the  house  was  so  still,  owing  to  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  and  the  snow-paved  streets,  I  could  hear  the 
laundress  three  stories  off,  if  she  repented  and  came 
up  the  stairs. 

1  arranged  the  table  with  glass  and  silver  and  some 
flowers,  to  have  a  very  nice  effect.  Then  I  moved  the 
lamp  to  a  side-table,  and  drew  down  the  gas,  and  put  a 
heavy  shade  upon  it.  There  was  also  a  shade  upon  the 
lamp.  Except  for  the  glow  of  the  fire,  there  was  no 
light  shed  about  the  room ;  that  thrown  by  the  shaded 
gas  upon  the  table  did  not  extend  beyond  the  circle  of 
the  cloth.  I  moved  the  chair  up  by  the  fire,  arranged 
the  footstool  before  it,  put  on  the  side-table  below  the 
lamp,  the  cloisonne  bowl  of  notes  and  cards  that  had 
accumulated  since  he  had  been  away,  and  placed  beside 
his  plate  three  or  four  letters  that  had  come  that  day. 

It  was  now  half-past  eleven.  There  came  a  ring  at 
the  door.  I  grew  pale  with  fear  that  the  laundress  had 
grown  stubborn  and  might  not  go,  but  after  a  moment, 
I  heard  her  mount  the  stairs  and  go  slowly  to  the  door. 
Then  I  heard  Macnally's  quick  step  on  the  stairs,  and 
her  heavy  one  going  down  the  basement  stairs,  and  a 


CAP     AND     APRON.  397 

bang  of  the  basement  door.  I  pushed  open  the  door  a 
little,  that  he  might  get  a  gleam  of  welcome  from  it, 
and  withdrew  into  the  closet  just  as  he  entered  the 
room.  He  said  "  Ah !"  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as  he 
glanced  around  the  bright  and  home-like  place.  He 
shook  the  snow  from  his  coat,  put  down  his  bag  inside 
the  bed-room  door,  took  off  his  ulster,  and  then  re 
turned  and  walked  round  the  room,  and  looked  about 
it  as  a  man  does  who  has  made  a  home  of  a  place,  and 
is  glad  to  get  back  to  it  once  more.  He  glanced  at  the 
notes  and  cards  with  little  interest,  took  up  the  letters, 
laid  back  two,  and  read  one. 

In  the  meantime,  I  had  gone  into  the  corner  room, 
and  was  putting  on  my  cap  and  apron  by  the  glass. 
Mary  was  slender,  and  about  my  height.  My  dress  was 
black  und  unobtrusive.  I  felt  reassured  as  I  glanced  at 
myself  in  the  dim  light.  Then  I  went  back  softly  and 
listened.  Macnally  was  in  the  parlor  ;  so,  with  a  beat 
ing  heart,  I  stepped  out  into  the  bedroom.  But  the 
peril  was  so  great,  I  resolved  the  heart-beats  should  be 
regulated,  and  they  were.  He  had  left  the  parlor  door 
open  when  he  entered  from  the  hall.  It  was  important 
that  this  door  should  be  shut,  or  the  laundress  would 
see  the  preparation  of  the  table,  and  know  I  had  been 
in  the  room.  I  went  quietly  out  into  the  hall  through 
the  bedroom  door,  and  shut  the  parlor  door  from  the 
outside.  It  was  just  in  time.  I  heard  the  heavy-footed 
Hebe  coming  up  the  basement  stairs,  and  I  returned  to 
the  shelter  of  the  bedroom  door.  She  put  down  the 
tray  with  an  ostentatious  clatter  of  the  dishes  on  it,  and 
turning,  went  stolidly  down  the  stairs  again.  Then  I 
came  out  into  the  hall,  set  the  screen  before  the  table 


398  CAP    AND    APKON. 

and  the  parlor  door,  opened  it,  took  a  covered  dish  in 
my  hand,  and  went  trembling  in. 

It  rather  steadied  me  to  find  my  entrance  was  not 
at  all  observed.  He  had  thrown  down  his  letters  and 
was  walking  about  the  room  again.  I  saw  him  take  up 
the  lamp  from  the  side  table,  and  go  over  to  where  the" 
little  water-color  sketch  of  the  beach  hung,  and  gaze 
at  it  long  and  fixedly. 

By  this  time  I  had  got  the  things  all  upon  the  table. 
When  he  put  back  the  lamp,  he  knocked  the  shade  ofi 
it.  As  he  turned  away,  I  hurriedly  replaced  it,  and 
then  stood  back  in  the  shadow.  I  hoped  he  would  see 
that  his  supper  was  ready.  I  had  not  taken  it  into 
consideration  that  I  should  have  to  speak.  Instead  of 
noticing  the  preparation  for  his  meal,  he  went  to  the 
writing-table,  brought  a  portfolio  to  the  light,  and  sit 
ting  down,  not  in  the  chair  placed  for  him  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  but  in  one  he  pulled  up  for  himself,  hastily 
scratched  off  a  little  note,  put  it  in  an  envelope  and 
directed  it.  Then  he  got  up,  pushed  back  his  chair, 
and  said, 

"Have  this  sent  for  me  to-night,  will  you,  if 
possible.  Or,  if  not,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

He  handed  it  to  me  without  looking  at  me,  but  as  I 
took  it,  his  eye  fell  on  me  as  he  turned  away.  I  was 
conscious  that  he  had  looked  at  me,  but  I  had  been 
very  much  in  shadow,  and  my  face  had  been  turned 
away,  I  had  been  prepared,  from  what  I  had  heard 
Mary  tell  Sophia  once,  that  he  would  not  notice  me. 
She  said  he  was  a  very  nice  gentleman,  but  he  wasn't 
like  most  other  gentlemen ;  he  didn't  notice  servants 
when  they  waited  on  him,  and  though  always  civil, 
never  talked  to  them.  Mary  was  very  pretty,  and  had, 


CAP    AND    APKON.  399 

no  doubt,  been  used  to  a  different  line  of  conduct  in 
other  nice  gentlemen  whom  she  had  waited  on. 

Instead  of  sitting  down  at  the  table  or  noticing  that 
it  was  ready,  he  threw  himself  into  the  chair  before  the 
fire,  and  sat  gazing  at  it  while  the  minutes  passed.  I 
moved  about  the  room,  or  stood  back  in  the  shadow,  ray 
agitation  increasing  every  moment.  Presently  he  said, 
without  turning  his  head, 

"  Will  you  put  another  piece  of  coal  on  the  fire !" 

The  fire  was  sending  out  a  ruddy  glow  just  then. 
The  movement  brought  me  right  into  the  heart  of  the 
light,  and  into  range  of  his  steady  gaze.  But  I  went 
quickly  forward,  took  the  coal  from  the  scuttle,  threw 
it  hastily  on  the  fire,  and  drew  back  again  out  of  the 
light.  Still  he  sat  gazing  on  into  the  same  spot  and  did 
not  move  ;  then  I  made  a  feint  of  going  out  into  the 
hall  and  putting  another  dish  on  the  table,  and  then  I 
said,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  strange  and  unnatural  in 
my  own  ears, 

"  Your  supper  is  on  the  table,  sir." 

He  did  not  look  up,  but  moved  back  his  chair  and 
took  his  seat  in  the  one  placed  for  him  at  the  table. 
This  one  was  a  dining  chair,  with  rather  a  high  back, 
and  arms.  He  leaned  back  wearily  in  it.  I  had  gone 
back,  and  stood  behind  him.  He  drew  a  dish  towards 
him,  took  up  the  carving  knife  and  fork,  cut  a  bird  in 
two  and  put  it  on  his  plate.  He  took  some  salt  on  his 
plate  ;  he  took  up  a  piece  of  bread.  The  toast  under 
the  bird  seemed  to  strike  him ;  he  pulled  the  dish  back 
again  and  took  it  upon  his  plate.  He  did  not  have  a 
traveller's  appetite,  apparently.  I  was  watching  keenly, 
and  he  was  playing  at  eating,  trying  to  like  his  food, 
and  not  tempted,  now  it  was  before  him.  I  remembered 


4:00  CAP     AND    APRON. 

hearing  Mary  say  to  one  of  the  servants  that  many 
days  she  took  away  his  dinner,  almost  as  she  had  carried 
it  np  to  him.  I  was  afraid  he  was  ill.  His  long  jour 
ney  surely  should  have  given  him  an  appetite.  The 
sort  of  solicitude  I  felt  for  him,  took  away  my  appre 
hensive  feeling  about  myself. 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  wine  ?"  he  startled  me  by 
saying  at  last.  The  wine  was  within  easy  distance  of 
his  hand,  if  he  had  stretched  it  out.  But  I  suppose  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  being  waited  on.  He  held  his  wine 
glass  in  his  hand ;  I  went  around  the  table,  took  the 
decanter  up  and  took  out  the  stopper,  then  came  a  little 
nearer  to  him,  and  lifted  it  up  over  the  glass  to  fill  it. 
I  gave  a  stealthy  glance  at  his  face.  He  did  not  look 
up,  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  glass.  The  decanter  was 
rather  a  heavy  one  ;  my  wrist  shook  a  little.  I  glanced 
down  ;  it  gave  me  a  sudden  terror  to  see  how  strong 
the  light  shone  on  my  hand,  and  how  white  it  looked. 
I  had,  too,  forgotten  to  take  off  my  rings  ! 

I  was  on  the  right  side  of  the  table ;  with  his  right 
hand  he  was  holding  the  glass.  I  made  a  little  awk 
ward  effort  to  tip  the  decanter  down,  and  the  wine 
began  to  gurgle  out  and  fill  the  glass. 

At  this  moment,  his  left  hand  made  a  panther-like 
spring,  and  grasped  my  wrist.  I  uttered  a  cry,  and  let 
the  decanter  fall  upon  the  table  ;  and  the  odor  of  the 
spilled  wine  always  comes  to  me  as  I  remember  that 
strange  scene.  He  started  to  his  feet : 

"  What  does  this  masquerading  mean  ?"  he  said,  in  a 
hoarse,  harsh  voice. 

I  had  put  up  my  other  arm  before  my  face,  which  I 
bent  down  and  hid  completely  from  him.  He  caught 
the  wrist  of  this  aj*m  (still  holding  the  other  in  a 


CAP    AND    APRON.  401 

fierce  grasp),  and  drew  it  away  from  my  face.  I  lifted 
my  head,  and  for  a  moment  our  eyes  met. 

Then  he  relaxed  his  hold  upon  my  wrists,  gave  a 
sort  of  gasp,  and,  staggering  back,  sank  into  his  chair. 
I  was  stunned  for  a  moment ;  I  put  my  hand  up  to  my 
temple.  Then  as  I  saw  the  horrible  whiteness  of  his 
look,  and  the  closing  of  his  eyes,  I  gave  a  cry,  and 
threw  myself  down  on  my  knees  beside  his  chair. 

"  What  have  I  done,"  I  cried,  "  what  have  I  done  ?" 
and  I  caught  his  hand  and  tried  to  warm  it.  He  moved 
his  hand  a  little  and  opened  his  eyes  and  tried  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,"  I  cried  passionately.  "  I  never 
meant  you  should  have  seen  me.  I  would  have  died 
first.  I  thought  you  would  not  know  me.  It  is  too 
cruel — I  have  done  so  wrong.  Don't  look  at  me  if  it 
hurts  you  so !"  and  I  put  my  head  down  upon  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  for  his  eyes  only  rested  upon  me  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  closed  again  as  if  the  sight  were  insup 
portable. 

"It  seems  cruel,"  I  went  on  incoherently,  with  tears, 
looking  up  at  him  ;  "  it  seems  cruel,  but  it  really  was  a 
sacrifice — and  I  did  not  think  that  you  would  know 
me.  All  winter  I  have  kept  out  of  your  sight,  and  I 
never,  never  meant  you  should  have  had  the  pain  of 
seeing  me.  I  had  vowed  to  myself  you  never  should. 
It  will  be  ungenerous  if  you  let  it  make  you  ill,  when  I 
did  not  mean  to  do  you  any  wrong,  when  I  only  did  it 
for  a  kindness.  I  was  so  sorry  for  your  lonely  coming 
home.  I — I — have  been  so  sorry  for  you  always,"  and 
I  began  to  sob. 

He  made  a  fierce  effort  to  overcome  the  faintness, 
and  tried  to  speak.  "  I  shall  be  better — in  a  moment," 
he  said. 


402  CAP    AND    APRON. 

I  started  to  my  feet  and  hastily  poured  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  held  it  out  to  him.  He  drank  it  with  an 
effort,  and  as  he  gave  the  glass  back  to  me,  our  eyes 
met,  and  the  thought  of  the  last  time  when  I  had  stood 
before  him,  while  he  drank  off  the  wine  I  had  poured  out 
for  him,  flashed  through  both  our  minds. 

"  That  was  a  long  while  ago,"  he  said,  leaning  his 
head  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  looking  up  at  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  uneasily.  "  But  you  needn't  think 
of  that  time,  if  it  makes  you  ill.  You  needn't  think  of 
anything — you  can  be  as  if  I  hadn't  had  the  misery  to 
come  and  trouble  you  again.  I  will  go  away,  and  you 
can  forget  it  all,  and  be  like  other  happy  people.  You 
have  everything,  you  ought  to  be  happy.  Remember, 
I  meant  it  always — it  ought  to  make  you  forgive  me — 
I  never  meant  to  bring  it  all  up  again.  Give  me  the 
credit  of  that,  at  least.  I  don't  think  I  have  been  self 
ish." 

"  You  forget,"  he  said,  brokenly,  "  I  don't  know — 
anything — " 

I  was  standing  before  him ;  I  saw  his  eye  rest  on 
my  apron ;  I  thought  I  saw  a  look  of  disgust  pass  over 
his  features.  Of  course  it  was  not,  only  the  physical 
pain  that  his  recurring  faintness  gave.  But,  stung  by 
my  mistaken  thought,  I  tore  the  cap  and  apron  off,  and 
threw  them  on  the  floor. 

"  I  am  not  a  servant,"  I  said,  with  a  little  bitter 
laugh.  "  I  only  put  those  things  on  to  come  and  wait 
on  you  because  there  was  no  other  way  that  you  should 
have  anything  to  eat  to-night,  when  you  came  home. 
You  don't  know  about  it — but  this  is  Sophia's  house. 
Sophia  had  money  left  her ;  she  is  a  rich  woman  now, 
for  a  person  of  her  class.  She  has  had  these  two  houses 


CAP    A1ST*    APRON.  403 

for  a  good  many  years,  and  I  have  always  lived  with 
her,  and  had  her  prettiest  rooms,  and  been  quite  in 
luxury.  She  doesn't  know  you're  here — she's  ill — I've 
kept  it  from  her,  that  you  might  have  peace.  I've 
hoped  you  might  feel  a  little  as  if  it  were  a  home,  i 
knew  it  couldn't  last — it  was  not  selfish  in  me — what 
were  a  few  weeks  or  less  ?  I  know  you  think  it  was 
unwomanly  in  me  to  come  into  your  rooms. — Yes,  per 
haps  it  was.  I  never  meant  to  do  it.  I  always  felt 
ashamed.  I  thought  you'd  never  know,  and  the  rooms 
looked  so  dreary  the  first  time  that  I  saw  them. — It 
was  all  a  sudden  impulse  to-night ;  the  servants  were 
all  gone  to  bed  but  one  ;  she  brought  your  supper  up 
and  left  it  at  the  door.  I  thought  you'd  never  know 
me,  I  kept  the  room  so  dim.  It  was  your  fault ;  you 
should  not  have  caught  my  hand.  You  never  need 
have  known  me  if  you  had  not." 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  said,  with  effort,  press 
ing  his  hand  against  hie  heart ;  "  if  I  could — 

"  I  do  understand,"  I  cried,  with  fresh  tears.  "  I  un 
derstand  it  all.  I  have  made  you  ill.  I  have  always 
done  you  harm.  I  wish  I  had  been  dead  before  I  came 
up  here  to-night." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  me ;  I  had  gone  back 
a  few  steps  from  him,  but  I  came  nearer  again,  and 
took  his  hand. 

"  It's  very  hard  for  me  to  see  you  look  so  ill,"  I 
said,  falteringly.  "  Can't  I  get  you  anything  ?  Isn't 
there  any  medicine  you  take  ?" 

lie  shook  his  head,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair,  hold 
ing  my  hand  in  a  faint  grasp,  and  looking  at  me  with 
deep,  unmoving  eyes. 

I  grew  restless  under  his  steady  gaze.     His  recog- 


404:  CAP    A]5TD    APKOIT. 

nition  of  me  had  been  all  pain,  all  anguish  ;  he  had  yet 
to  utter  the  first  word,  give  the  first  glance,  of  pleasure. 
I  thought  of  all  my  doubts,  of  all  that  had  pained  me,  as 
I  had  watched  his  goings  out  and  comings  in.  I  thought 
of  ISTaomi  Emlyn.  I  knew  that  the  note,  even  now  in 
the  pocket  of  my  apron,  was  addressed  to  her.  I  had 
indeed  been  an  unwelcome  apparition.  It  was  his  deep 
and  unforgetting  nature  made  him  so  strongly  moved 
at  sight  of  me.  Perhaps  he  had  only  recently  made  up 
his  mind  to  believe  me  dead,  and  to  fill  my  place,  and 
this  was  the  moment  I  had  chosen  to  come  back.  It 
was  torture  to  have  all  these  thoughts,  and  stand  beside 
him,  and  feel  his  faint  fingers  clasp  my  hand. 

"  It  agitates  you  to  see  me,"  I  said,  constrainedly, 
and  I  loosened  my  hand,  and  drew  a  little  back.  It 
wasn't  a  difficult  matter  to  do  ;  I  couldn't  see  that  he 
made  any  effort  to  hold  it  longer.  A  swift  red  over 
spread  my  face,  as  I  turned  a  little  from  him. 

At  this  moment  I  heard  outside  the  door,  steps  and 
voices  and  the  bumping  of  a  trunk  against  the  floor,  then 
a  loud  rap.  I  sprang  forward,  caught  up  the  cap  and 
apron  from  the  floor,  and  disappeared  from  sight.  I 
heard  the  door  open  as  I  hurried  through  the  closet. 
The  expressman  and  the  laundress  had  not  had  the 
good  manners  to  wait  till  they  were  told  to  enter.  It 
was  well  for  me  that  I  had  heard  them  when  I  did. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  WOMAN,    NOT  A  SHADE. 

"  Kiss  me  for  my  love! 

Pay  me  for  my  pain ! 
Come !  and  murmur  in  my  ear, 
How  thou  lov'st  again !" 

Barry  Cornwall. 

IT  was  about  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  that 
one  of  the  servants  brought  me  a  note  from  Mr. 
Conyngham.     Of  course,  I  had  known  he  would  come, 
and  was  prepared  for  it.     I  read  it  hastily  over,  and 
told  the  servant  to  say  I  would  be  glad  to  see  him. 

Yes,  I  was  quite  prepared  to  see  him.  I  was 
dressed — not  in  a  cap  and  apron.  There  are  some 
scenes  you  can't  go  through  in  a  short  dress,  and  mine 
was  long.  It  was  only  a  black  cashmere,  but  it  didn't 
look  like  Mary's.  I  had  a  bunch  of  violets  at  my 
waist ;  I  had  spent  an  hour  about  my  hair,  which 
hadn't  any  gray  in  it  at  all,  but  was  as  soft  and  brown 
as  ever. 

The  snow  was  falling  outside  thickly  before  the 
windows — great,  soft  flakes,  which  darkened  the  air. 
The  hangings  were  drawn  back  a  little ;  the  room  had 
a  great  many  flowers  about  it ;  there  was  a  warm  glow 
from  the  lire  on  the  hearth.  The  room  was  large,  but 
the  ceiling  was  not  high.  It  looked  filled  and  warm 
and  mellow  with  rich  tints.  I  pushed  a  chair  I  liked 


406 


A     WOMAN,     NOT    A    SHADE. 


between  the  fire-place  and  the  window,  and  sat  down 
there.  I  was  knitting  the  pale  gray  stripe  of  an  afghan, 
and  I  kept  my  work  in  my  hand.  There  was  a  quick 
knock  at  the  door.  I  said,  "  Come  in,"  and  Macnallj 
entered.  I  got  up,  and  he  came  across  the  room  to  me, 
and  took  my  hand.  Pie  looked  pale,  but  not  ill,  as  he 
had  done  the  night  before.  I  sat  down,  saying : 

"  You  are  better,  I  am  sure,  to-day  ?" 

There  was  no  use  ignoring  last  night,  though  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  do  it,  if  I  could.  If  I  could  only 
have  remembered  what  I  had  said  to  him  when  I  threw 
myself  down  before  him  on  my  knees !  It  would  take 
a  very  long  dress  and  a  very  composed  manner  to 
obliterate  that  miserable  mistake. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "  I  gave  you  some  anxiety 
last  night.  It's  unlucky  that  I  get  those  attacks  when 
I  have  any  sudden — surprise  or  anything." 

u  I  should  think,"  I  said,  looking  down  at  my  knit 
ting,  "  that  if  you  have  any  trouble  of  the  heart  or  any 
thing  like  that,  you  ought  to  be  careful  and  avoid  ex 
citement.  Speaking,  and  all  that,  isn't  it  bad  for  you  ?" 

"  You  mean  for  the  excitement  of  it  ?  Oh,  that's 
not  the  sort  of  thing  that  hurts  one — ,"  and  he  smiled 
a  little  faintly. 

He  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  leaning  against  the 
mantel-piece,  just  beside  me.  He  had  an  affinity  for  man 
tel-pieces.  I  seemed  always  to  remember  him  standing  by 
a  mantel-piece  and  looking  at  the  fire.  But  he  was  not 
looking  at  the  fire  now,  he  was  looking  at  me,  I  could 
feel  that.  I  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say.  I  had 
meant  to  be  so  calm,  so  reassuring  to  him.  I  had  meant 
to  make  it  so  easy  for  him  to  explain  everything  to  me. 
But  here  I  was,  changing  from  red  to  white,  and  my 


A     WOMAN.     NOT    A     SHADE. 

breath  coming  in  such  a  suffocating  way.  He  did  not 
speak.  It  seemed  to  me  he  might  have  spoken,  he 
might  have  helped  me ;  one  ought  to  feel  sorry  for  a 
woman.  I  went  on  with  my  work.  What  should  I 
have  done  without  it?  At  last  I  remembered  some 
thing  to  say :  it  was  the  thing  that  gave  me  most  con 
trol. 

"  Oh,  that  letter.  I  hope  it  won't  make  any  differ 
ence.  I  just  found  it  this  morning  in  the  pocket  of — 
in  my  pocket.  Here  it  is,"  and  I  took  it  out  and  gave 
it  to  him.  He  took  it  indifferently. 

"  It's  just  as  well,"  he  said.  "  It  doesn't  make  any 
difference  now." 

No,  of  course  not.  I  could  see  that.  There  would 
have  to  be  such  a  different  story  now,  it  was  just  as 
well  it  didn't  go.  But  I  must  help  him  about  that. 
How  should  I  begin  ? 

I  pulled  a  long  thread  of  the  worsted  off  the  ball, 
to  knit  more  freely.  It  slipped  through  my  fingers  as 
I  laid  it  in  my  lap,  and  rolled  away  across  the  floor. 
He  did  not  notice  it  or  pick  it  up.  I  did  not  dare  to 
go  after  it  myself,  I  was  so  afraid  of  losing  the  little 
self-control  of  manner  that  I  had.  All  this  time  I  did 
not  look  at  him,  but  I  felt  he  leaned  a  little  towards  me. 
In  a  moment  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  wrist,  and  held 
it  firmly. 

"Put  down  your  work,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  and  look  at  me.  Have  we  nothing  to  say  to  each 
other,  after  all  these  years  ?" 

I  drew  my  hand  away.  "  I  hope  you  will  forget 
last  night,"  I  said. 

"Why  should  I  forget  it?"  he  asked. 

"  There  were  many  things  to — to — make  me — You 


408  A    WOMAN,    NOT    A    SHADE. 

must  remember  a  woman  will  do  a  great  deal  from 
compassion.  I  shall  always  feel  I  owe  you  reparation — 
but  that  doesn't  mean — 

He  had  released  my  hand,  and  stood  in  his  former 
attitude,  and  did  not  attempt  to  say  a  word.  It  was 
insupportable  this  silence,  and  his  eyes  upon  me. 

"  That  shade,"  I  said  confusedly,  "  I  want  it  down. 
The  light  hurts  my  eyes." 

He  did  not  notice  what  I  said ;  I  don't  think  he  heard 
me.  I  got  up  uneasily,  to  go  and  pull  it  down  myself. 
As  I  stood  up,  I  turned  a  little  towards  him ;  I  glanced 
into  his  face ;  I  met  his  eyes,  full  of  an  agony  of  love 
and  disappointment. 

"  Ah,"  I  cried,  "  you  do  care  !  Why  could  you  not 
say  that  you — were — glad  ?"  Then,  with  a  sudden  pas 
sion,  I  flung  myself  into  his  arms  with  sobs.  "  I  will 
not  live  any  longer  if  you  go  away  again.  I  have  borne 
all  I  can  bear.  I  have  died  a  hundred  deaths.  You 
may  kill  me  if  you  go  away  again.  I  will  not — will  not 
— live  to  sufl'er  any  more  alone." 

*  *     *     "Why  could  he  not  say  that  he  was  glad  ? 
Ah,  "  glad "  does  not  come  in  a  moment,  after  such 
long-dying  deaths.     I  think  he  held  me  in  his  arms  with 
more  of  agony  than  joy  at  first.     The  pain  had  been  so 
deep-branded,  a  sudden  bliss  could  not  obliterate  it. 

*  *     *     "  Make  me  glad — make  me  believe  in  it," 
he  said,  faint  again,1  lying  back  in  a  deep  chair,  and  hold 
ing  out  his  hand  to  me.     Then  I  knelt  beside  him,  and 
held  his  hand  against  my  lips,  my  cheek. 

"  If  I  could  only  blot  it  out,"  I  said  ;  "  if  you  only 
could  forget — 

"  I  cannot,"  he  said  ;  "  I  cannot  forget  the  pain  or 
anything.  It  is  my  misery  that  I  cannot." 


A    WOMAN,    NOT     A     SHADE.  409 

*  *  *  That  afternoon,  we  were  still  sitting  in 
the  low,  pretty  parlor.  The  streets  were  all  muffled  with 
the  snow,  which  was  falling  yet  in  soft  clouds  before  the 
windows.  The  street  lamps  were  just  being  lighted ; 
upon  the  hearth  the  fire  was  making  a  deep  glow. 

"  I  did  not  think,"  he  said,  "  you  would  have  looked 
so  young  and  well.  I  am  trying  to  understand  it.  I  am 
afraid  you  have  been  happy." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  just  what  has  tormented  me,  as  I  have 
watched  you  going  past  these  windows.  There  never 
was  any  drag  or  dullness  about  the  way  you  walked." 

"  I  acknowledge  I  have  liked  my  work.  There  is 
a  satisfaction  in  being  able  to  do  things." 

"  And  being  praised  for  it." 

"  No,  I  never  cared  a  straw  about  that.  It's  the 
work  itself  that  pays  you  :  the  praise  gives  you  a  feeling 
of  dissatisfaction.  That's  about  books,  I  mean.  Oh,  of 
course,  when  you're  face  to  face  with  people,  and  speak 
ing  to  them,  there's  a  fascination  in  finding  that  you 
have  the  power  to  move  them.  Yes,  I've  liked  that. 
I'm  Irishman  enough  to  be  inflammable." 

"  Ah  !  well,  I  didn't  blame  you  for  not  looking  dull 
or  weary  when  you  went  past  the  windows.  I  tried  to  tell 
myself  I  was  very  glad  about  it.  But  for  all  that,  it's 
been  pretty  hard  these  two  months.  It  has  been  like 
being  shut  into  a  dungeon  without  light  or  air,  and 
knowing  that  you  were  in  a  crowd  of  people  dancing  and 
making  merry  overhead." 

"  Ah  !  save  the  mark  !     Such  making  merry !    You 

needn't  have  been  afraid.     At  home  I  could  not  bring 

myself  to  endure  it  ever,  I  felt  I  was  such  an  alien. 

Here  I  had  an  incentive  to  going  in  society.     I  had 

18 


410  A    WOMAN,     NOT    A    SHADE. 

sometimes  a  fancy  that  you  might  have  drifted  into  that 

sort  of  life." 
u  y  p? 

"  I  felt  you  might,  if  you  were  living,  have  come 
under  the  eye  of  some  one — like  Bough  ton.  This  is 
not  a  reproach — it  seemed  to  me  you  might  have  mar 
ried.  I  always  thought  of  you  as  passive  and  passion 
less.  I  couldn't  hope  if  you  were  living,  your  loveliness 
could  be  hidden.  Somebody  would  see  you  and  want 
you ;  there  was  nothing  now.  Why  not — it  was  all 
equal.  This  was  only  one  of  the  thousand  fancies  that 
I've  had ;  but  it  gave  a  little  life  to  the  dreary  crowds 
and  crushes  of  this — forgive  me — dreary,  crushing  city." 

"  And  you  looked  for  me  there  /" 

"Yes,  and  then  for  some  one  who  could  give 
me  news  of  you.  I  heard  Naomi  Emlyn  was  here,  and 
I  found  her  out.  She  could  not  tell  me  much,  as  you 
know.  She  will  be  so  glad.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  sellish. 
not  to  have  got  her  word  to-day.  She  is  such  a  beauti 
ful  young  creature.  The  yellow-brown  hair,  and  the 
eyes  and  the  sentiment  have  all  deepened ;  one  rarely 
sees  a  woman  so  attractive." 

I  had  loosened  my  hand  from  his. 

"  You  will  let  me  bring  her  here  to-morrow?" 

"  I — I  don't  receive  visits.  It  would  derange  my 
plans  a  little.  One  must  have  a  rule,  and  keep  to  it, 
you  know." 

"  But  Naomi !  whom  you  always  loved  so  much.  I 
thought  it  would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  you." 

"  Oh,  not  particularly  a  pleasure  to  me.  She  has 
outgrown  the  affection  I  had  for  her.  I  should  have 
to  make  up  a  new  one  to  iit  her  now.  I  haven't  seen 
her  since  she  became  this  beautiful  young  creature. 


A    WOMAN,    NOT    A    SHADE.  411 

The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was  rather  a  tomboy,  and 
had  to  be  sent  away  to  wash  her  hands  before  she  came 
to  dinner.  She  also  used  to  bother  me  with  questions. 
I  used  to  think  her  sentiment  was  a  great  nuisance ;  if  it's 
deepened  any,  I  should  like  to  give  it  a  wide  berth." 

"  You're  not,"  he  said,  stooping  down  and  looking 
in  my  face,  *'  you're  not,  by  chance,  a  trifle  jealous  of 
our  pretty  Naomi  ?" 

"  You're  not,"  I  said,  "  by  chance,  a  trifle  jealous  of 
that  anonymous  gentleman,  married  to  the  passive  and 
passionless  woman  you  described  ?" 

"I?  oh,  I  wasn't  jealous  of  him.  I  never  have 
been  jealous  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  then,  no  more  have  I." 

"  Ah,"  he  cried,  turning  my  face  so  that  the  fire 
light  shone  on  it,  "  now  I  begin  to  believe  it  is  all  real. 
You  are  a  woman  and  not  a  shade.  I  owe  Naomi 
thanks  for  that !  Did  I  tell  you  ?  She's  to  be  mar 
ried  after  Lent.  I  wrote  only  a  few  days  ago  to  Lon 
don  for  a  wedding  present  for  her.  I  don't  believe 
you  can  fancy  what  it  is  to  be." 

"  I  don't  want  to  fancy,"  I  said,  getting  my  face 
out  of  the  light.  "  I  wish  you  would  stop  talking  of 
lier." 

Horrid  as  it  is  to  be  jealous,  I  don't  know  but  it's 
worse  to  be  ashamed  and  disgusted  with  yourself  for 

having  been  jealous  without  any  reason. 

#•*#•**•##          * 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  said, 
later  on,  that  evening.  "Remember,  it  isn't  a  re 
proach." 

He  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room  a  little.  I 
could  see  it  cost  him  a  great  effort.  "  Those  dreadful 


412  A    WOMAN,     NOT    A    SHADE. 

dajs — there  in  the  court-room — why  didn't  you — say  a 
word  to  me  ?" 

"  How  could  I  ?  You  did  not  give  me  a  chance ; 
you  never  even  looked  at  me.  Besides — I  couldn't — 
before  every  one." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  knew  you  couldn't  speak  to 
me.  But  why  didn't  you  say  something  for  me  to 
understand,  when  you  made  your  answers  ?  There  was 
not  a  word ;  I  didn't  know  whether  you  believed  the 
worst  of  me,  or  not.  I  knew  you  didn't  want  me — 
hung — but  you  can't  understand  the  horror  of  that  si 
lence.  It  seemed  to  me  if  you  had  cared,  if  I  had  had 
the  place  that  you  have  given  me  now,  then  was  the  time 
to  have  been  brave  and  to  declare  it.  I  couldn't  see  how 
you  could  have  helped  it.  I — but  I  ought  not  to  have 
begun  to  talk  about  it." 

"  Yes,  you  ought,"  I  cried.  "  Thank  Heaven  you've 
given  me  a  chance  to  tell  you.  I  thought  you  under 
stood — I  never  dreamed  you  didn't.  It  was  Mr.  Har- 
dinge ;  I  never  said  a  word  but  as  he  led  me.  I  never 
took  my  eyes  away  from  him.  He  gave  me  the  cue 
for  every  word  I  said.  He  would  not  let  me  be — any 
thing  but  cold  towards  you.  It  was  for  the  effect  upon 
the  jury.  Don't  you  see,  my  testimony  would  have 
gone  for  little  if  they  had  believed  I — I — cared  for  you 
that  way.  I  supposed  he  would  have  told  you ;  that 
you'd  talk  it  over  with  him." 

"  He  wouldn't  be  likely  to  talk  to  me  about  you" 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  him  ?" 

"Ask  him!  ah!" 

"  It  would  have  saved  you  a  great  deal,  if  you  could 
have  overcome  that  reticence." 

"  Yes,  it  would  have  saved  me  ten  years  of  torment- 


A    WOMAN,    NOT    A    SHADE.  413 

ing  doubts.  For  if  I  had  been  sure — as  you  were — I 
might  have  been  at  rest.  There  were  all  my  convic 
tions  on  one  side,  my  heart's  fixed  faith ;  and  on  the 
other,  a  silence  like  the  grave ;  not  one  word  from  the 
hour  I  told  you  till  this  day — everything,  everything 
against  my  hope  but  just  my  hope  itself.  Ah,  well ! 
It's  past  now.  We  won't  talk  about  it  any  more." 

*  *  *  "  Sophia,"  I  said,  sliding  down  on  my  knees 
before  her  bed,  and  taking  hold  of  her  hand  "  I 
liaven't  been  up  here  all  day,  and  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  the  reason.  I've  got  something  to  tell  you.  Don't 
take  away  your  hand."  For  she  had  restlessly  moved 
her  hand  away.  My  taking  it  seemed  a  most  unnatural 
proceeding  to  her.  I  don't  believe  she  had  ever  let  me 
hold  her  hand  before  since  I  was  a  little  girl  and  she 
took  me  out  to  walk.  "  Sophia,  I've  got  to  tell  you  who 
Mr.  Conyngham  is.  He  is  Bernard  Macnally.  I've 
known  it  since  the  night  I  went  to  hear  the  lecture. 
I  didn't  tell  you  ;  there  wasn't  any  use." 

She  gave  a  violent  start,  and  turned  her  eyes  upon 
me  with  a  piercing  look. 

"  I  never  meant  that  he  should  see  me.  I  had  re 
solved  he  shouldn't  ever  know.  But  last  night  he  saw 
me,  and  he  knew  me  in  a  minute.  He  isn't  changed — 
towards  me — Sophia.  He  came  to  America  with  just 
that  only  hope.  He  has  been  all  these  weeks  in  Canada 
trying  to  get  some  clue  of  where  we  lived  when  we 
were  there." 

"  And  you  ?"     Her  voice  was  thick  and  hoarse. 

"  I  never  have  felt  but  one  way." 

"  Then  go,  and  leave  me  to  die  alone  at  last."  And 
she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  white  and  working 
with  emotion. 


414:  A    WOMAN,    NOT    A    SHADE 

" No"  I  cried,  catching  at  the  hand  that  she  had 
snatched  away ;  "  no,  Sophia,  I  am  not  going  away  to 
leave  you  altogether.  You  shall  live  here  and  keep 
your  house  the  same,  and  we  will  come  back  and  this 
shall  be  our  home  whenever  we  are  in  America.  Sophia, 
he  wants  to  see  you.  He  wants  to  thank  you  for  all 
you've  done  for  me.  He  knows  I  shouldn't  be  alive  if 
you  hadn't  been  so  good  and  faithful  to  me  through  my 
trouble." 

A  sort  of  hiss  broke  from  her  lips. 

"  He  isn't — angry  about  anything.  If  there  was 
anything  to  be  forgiven,  he  forgives  it  with  his  whole 
heart.  You  were  mistaken  ;  he  knows  anybody  can  be 
led  into  a  mistake.  You  won't  be  hard  about  this,  and 
spoil  my  happiness  to-day  ?  Think  how  much  you  and 
I  have  gone  through  together,  Sophia.  Be  as  good  to 
me  in  my  happy  days  as  you  have  been  to  me  in  my 
wretched  ones.  You  can't  be  sorry  that  this  has  come 
to  me  after  all  my  misery.  You  must  know  he  will  be 
good  to  me  always.  Why  can't  you  look  at  me,  and 
tell  me  that  it  pleases  you  to  hear  it  ?" 

"  Go  away,  now,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  I  don't  feel 
well  enough  to  talk.  Wait  till  to-morrow  morning." 

I  had  to  wait. 


CHAPTEK  XXXII. 

A  FAIR    LAND. 

"  Because,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and  hear  thee 
And  breathe  within  thy  shadow  a  new  air, 
I  do  not  think  of  thee — I  am  too  near  thee." 

E.  B.  Browning. 

THE  next  day,  Macnally  said  to  me,  with  simplicity, 
"  "When  shall  we  go  to  church  and  be  married  ? 
To-morrow  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  not  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  the  next  day  ?" 

"  That's  Friday." 

"The  next?" 

"  I  don't  like  Saturday.  It's  the  swell  day  to  get 
married,  and  for  that  reason  nothing  would  induce  me. 
And,  of  course,  we  wouldn't  be  married  on  Sunday, 
since  I  don't  wear  a  cap  and  apron.  Next  week  we'll 
begin  to  talk  about  it." 

He  was  an  Irish  lover,  and  he  began  to  talk  about 
it  long  before,  and  I  had  to  make  some  sort  of  promise 
for  the  following  Thursday .  That  week,  what  happy 
walks  we  had  together.  He  made  me  tell  him  all 
about  the  way  I  had  spent  my  days,  and  take  him  to  all 
the  places  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going  to,  even  to 
the  streets  where  the  poor  people  lived  whom  I  had 
visited.  I  showed  him  where  I  went  to  take  my  walks, 
a  corner  where  I  came  to  see  the  sun  set,  down  a  street 


416  A    FAIR    LAND. 

where  there  were  rows  of  trees,  and  some  sky  and  a 
little  river  bit,  beyond.  My  city  and  his  city  were  very 
different  places.  There  was  no  danger  of  meeting  any 
body  that  he  knew  in  mine.  We  had  very  free  and 
happy  hours  together  in  the  open  air,  as  well  as  in  the 
pretty,  low  parlor.  For  that  week,  I  don't  know  what 
became  of  all  his  dinner  engagements  and  things  like 
that.  I  am  afraid  he  was  a  little  rude  to  some  of  his 
good  friends.  I  am  quite  sure  he  never  even  answered 
any  notes.  He  was  an  Irish  lover,  as  I  have  said,  and 
he  didn't  allow  himself  to  be  diverted  from  the  matter 
that  he  had  in  hand.  There  was  an  engagement  to 
lecture,  which  was  a  little  more  serious.  I  would  not 
go  to  hear  him  ;  nothing  would  have  induced  me  then. 
The  loss  of  a  whole  evening  was  quite  out  of  the 
question  to  him  ;  so  the  lecture  engagement  was  broken, 
not  dishonorably,  of  course,  but  at  a  considerable  loss 
of  money.  I  can  scarcely  fancy  two  people  more  in 
different  to  sacrifices  of  that.  Fortunately,  there  was  a 
good  deal  to  sacrifice  with. 

*  *  I  even  took  him  to  the  hospital.  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  he  didn't  enjoy  it  at  all,  but  stood  as  near  the  door  of 
the  ward  I  was  in  as  he  could  get,  with  a  contraction 
of  the  brow,  and  a  most  uncomfortable  expression.  He 
had  all  a  man's  dislike  of  painful  sights,  and  a  poet's 
sensitiveness,  I  suppose,  besides.  At  first,  when  I  went 
in,  I  felt  guilty,  being  so  happy  among  the  children  of 
woe ;  but  in  a  few  minutes,  the  old  love  of  ministering 
to  them  came  back  to  me.  I  almost  forgot  him,  and 
staid  a  long,  long  time  in  my  favorite  ward,  as  en 
grossed  and  eager  as  ever.  When  I  came  away  at  last, 
I  am  afraid  he  saw  I  had  been  away  from  him  in  every 
sense.  The  scene  was  so  unspeakably  repulsive  to 


A    FAIR    LAND.  417 

him,  that  the  thought  of  my  being  part  of  it  was  insup 
portable.  He  could  not  bear  my  dress  should  touch 
the  door  as  I  passed  through  it.  When  I  stopped  for 
a  moment  in  the  great,  dark,  sounding,  stone  corridor, 
to  speak  to  an  orderly  whom  I  knew,  going  up  to  a 
surgical  ward  with  some  evil-looking  instruments  and  a 
roll  of  bandaging,  he  actually  took  me  by  the  arm,  as 
if  to  force  me  away. 

"  Can't  I  speak  to  the  poor  fellow  ?"  I  said ;  "  he's 
one  of  my  most  intimate  friends." 

We  passed  out  under  the  stone  archway,  into  the 
sunlight  and  fresh  air,  through  ranks  of  wretched  work 
house  women  waiting  for  official  orders.  A  wan  woman, 
thinly  clad,  with  a  pallid  baby  in  her  arms,  passed  out 
before  us.  The  cratches  of  a  boy,  blue  and  thin,  thumped 
on  the  pavement  in  front  of  us. 

"  Poor  wretches !  They're  discharged,"  I  said,  hur 
rying  forward  to  them. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  give  them  this  money,  and  come 
away,"  he  said. 

I  gave  them  the  gift,  which  was  lavish  and  absurd, 
and  then  went  back  and  took  his  arm,  and  we  walked 
down  towards  the  boat,  which  was  to  take  us  to  the 
city.  The  sun  was  just  setting ;  the  sky  was  clear  and 
rosy ;  a  strong  wind  was  blowing  across  the  island. 
Between  this  stone-built,  hard-paved,  barren  city  of 
sorrow,  and  that  city  of  tumultuous  life  and  luxury  to 
which  we  were  going,  the  icy  river  was  flowing,  all  lit 
up  now  by  the  tints  of  sunset. 

"  You  don't  like  it,  I'm  afraid,"  I  said. 

"  Like  it !"  he  exclaimed,  hurrying  me  towards  the 
boat.  He  held  my  arm  under  his  as  if  in  a  vice.  "  And 
18* 


418  A    FAIR    LAND. 

this  is  the  sort  of  thing  you've  been  doing!  Thank 
heaven — " 

"  Listen,"  I  said,  stopping,  and  trying  to  take  my 
arm  away.  "  There's  one  thing  I  might  as  well  say 
now  and  have  done  with  it.  There  sha'n't  be  any — 
Thursday — remember,  if  you  don't  promise  me  that  I 
may  always  go  to  all  the  hospitals  I  want  to,  all  my  life." 

"  Go  to  as  many  hospitals  as  you  like,  only  don't  ask 
me  to  go  with  you,"  he  said  with  a  groan,  resigning 
himself. 

"  Oh,  with  pleasure ;  I  don't  want  you  to  go.  Tou're 
very  much  in  the  way ;  but  you  may  give  me  lots  of 
money  always.  That  would  be  so  nice.  How  much 
money  do  you  think  you've  got  altogether  ?  I  never 
thought  to  ask  you." 

"  I  hope  you'll  leave  a  small  percentage  to  pay  the 
household  expenses.  The  rest,  of  course,  belongs  to 
the  cripples  and  the  small-pox  patients." 

"  Oh,  I'll  spare  enough  for  all  that.  I  hope  you  are 
very  rich.  I  wonder  that  I  didn't  think  of  it  before. 
Do  you  think  you  could  give  me  fifty  dollars  for  a  feast 
for  male  ward  No.  6,  on  Thursday  ?" 

"  A  thousand,  if  you  won't  ask  to  go  there  for  a 
fortnight." 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  reasonable.  No,  I  won't  ask  to  go 
for  three  weeks,  if  you  say  so ;  at  least,  not  till  we  come 
back." 

*  *  *  Macnally  had  said  to  me,  earnestly,  "  Get 
Sophia  to  consent  to  see  me  before  we  go  away.  I 
should  somehow  feel  better  about  it  if  she  would." 

But  it  was  of  no  use  asking  her.  On  "Wednesday 
night,  late,  I  went  up  to  say  good-bye  to  her.  I  found 
her  looking  pale  and  changed.  For  the  past  ten  days 


A    FAIR    LAND.  419 

she  had  been  stiller  and  quieter  than  I  had  ever  known 
her.  She  seemed  to  have  withdrawn  from  us,  and  to 
be  holding  bitter  communion  with  herself.  It  fright 
ened  me  to  see  her  so.  I  asked  her  if,  even  now,  she 
wouldn't  let  me  stay  at  home  till  she  was  better. 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  not  feeble.  "  I 
am  no  worse.  I  don't  need  anybody." 

"  Macnally  wants  to  know  if  you  won't  see  him  for 
a  minute.  He  desires  it  very  much,  before  we  go 
away." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  feel  well  enough.  Tell  him — it's  all 
right." 

That  was  the  nearest  that  we  got  to  it ;  but  for  her, 
it  meant  volumes.  I  was  always  glad  to  recollect  those 
few  words. 

She  allowed  me  to  kiss  her,  and  she  held  my  hand 
tight,  for  a  moment.  *  *  * 

On  Thursday  morning,  I  went  out  to  church  in  the 
gray  twilight,  accompanied  by  Mary.  This  last  was  a 
concession  to  Macn ally's  wretchedness  about  my  going 
out  unattended  at  that  early  hour.  I  heard  the  door  of 
the  other  house  shut,  just  after  we  got  out  into  the 
street,  and  I  knew  that  he  was  following  us  at  a  little 
distance.  We  were  to  be  married  after  the  seven 
o'clock  celebration.  The  sky  was  growing  lighter  about 
the  east.  It  was  going  to  be  a  still  and  lovely  Febru 
ary  day.  The  streets  were  silent,  the  houses  shut ;  a 
few  hungry  little  sparrows  fluttered  about  the  pave 
ment,  hunting  crumbs ;  a  dog  shivered  before  a  door, 
outside  of  which  he  had  been  shut  all  night.  Poor 
little  dog !  It  was  my  wedding-day ;  I  hoped  he  would 
get  in  and  find  a  cheerful  welcome  waiting  for  him.  It 


420  A    FAIE    LAND. 

was  my  wedding-day,  and  I  felt  happy,  for  the  faint 
rose  tints  that  I  saw  creeping  up  in  the  eastern  sky, 
through  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees. 

I  had  not  seen  Macnally  since  the  morning  before. 
I  had  told  him  I  must  pack  my  trunk,  and  that  there 
were  many  things  that  I  could  not  do  with  interrup 
tion.  I  knew  he  would  not  join  me  till  before  the 
altar,  but  I  heard  his  step  half  a  block  behind  me. 

*  *  *  Who  cannot  fancy  what  that  hour  was?  I 
almost  forgot  him,  as  in  the  hospital.  "When  the  few 
people  had  gone  out  of  church,  and  only  the  one  or 
two  were  still  upon  their  knees  who  were  going  to  stay 
and  pray  for  us,  I  saw  the  priest  was  waiting,  and  that 
Maenally  was  standing  at  the  chancel  steps.  I  seemed 
to  be  coming  out  of  a  far  land ;  the  land  I  came  to  was 
not  fairer  than  the  land  I  left — "  pure  lilies  of  eternal 
peace  whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams."  *  *  * 

When  we  came  out  of  the  church,  the  air  was  full 
of  sunshine  and  the  streets  of  life.  Merry  children  ran 
past  us  on  their  way  to  school ;  window  blinds  were 
opened  and  curtains  drawn,  and  flowers  looked  through 
the  glass  and  drank  the  sun.  One  could  see  the  buds 
were  reddening  on  the  bare  gray  trees  as  the  sun  shone 
through  them  ;  one  felt,  in  everything,  even  in  the  not 
warm  air,  "  the  first  blind  motions  of  the  Spring,  that 
show  the  year  is  turned." 


THE   END. 


A     000115846 


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